


How the Wild Things Start

by foolscapper



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Captivity, Child violence, Dad!Sam, Family, Forced Fighting, Gen, cagefighting, curtainfic, dean without mark of cain later on, horrible shit happening to sam my bad, mental breakdowns, mental trauma, mentally altered sam, monsters are around too, protective!Dean, s-sort of, the weirdest curtainfic that isn't a curtainfic, this really turned into a whole lot of things i can't think of tags for, traumatic events happen to kids later on
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-08
Updated: 2016-09-28
Packaged: 2018-04-19 17:14:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 60,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4754549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foolscapper/pseuds/foolscapper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>9x23 diverging AU. </p><p>"This is where it starts — the brightly lit ring, the screams, the glinting of knives, the baring of teeth. This, right here, is where it begins. Sam turns to Dean, Metatron just a hero's walk away, and Dean slams his fist into the side of Sam's face. It will bruise, but that's not the point. Sam will not face Metatron's blade and wrath, but that is not the point. The point is, Dean puts Sam's hands on his chest, the action sickly sweet like perfume left on a tacky, bloated corpse — and then he walks away. He leaves Sam, dreaming black dreams on the ground, just outside of the impala. Baby does not protect him when one of Abaddon's followers finds him. Baby does not scream for help or look for Dean when the demons drag Sam's unconscious body away.</p><p>When Dean leaves Metatron's burnt-out husk, his bones screaming ecstasy from the kill, he finds Sam gone."</p><p>COMPLETE.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Originally a prompt request; this is on ongoing series that span out of control and continues choo-chooing down misery lane, bahaha.

 

This is where it starts — the brightly lit ring, the screams, the glinting of knives, the baring of teeth. This, right here, is where it begins. Sam turns to Dean, Metatron just a hero's walk away, and Dean slams his fist into the side of Sam's face. It will bruise, but that's not the point. Sam will not face Metatron's blade and wrath, but that is not the point. The point is, Dean puts Sam's hands on his chest, the action sickly sweet like perfume left on a tacky, bloated corpse — and then he walks away. He leaves Sam, dreaming black dreams on the ground, just outside of the impala. Baby does not protect him when one of Abaddon's followers finds him. Baby does not scream for help or look for Dean when the demons drag Sam's unconscious body away.  
  
When Dean leaves Metatron's burnt-out husk, his bones screaming ecstasy from the kill, he finds Sam gone.

* * *

Sam kicks and growls and turns into an animal as they hold him still; there's a demon on every limb, clinging with inhuman strength, and one has him by the collar while another has him by the waistband. They hoist him steady, his body belly-down and hovering diagonal in the yellow light from above, while he thrashes and curses and spits blood. There is a _ **SNICKT SNICKT SNICKT**_ of scissors, as then soft tufts of brown hair snow down, drifts until it rests in piles on the stained cement floor. His stomach is punched for good measure (or perhaps simply because demons can't go long without being fucking assholes) and he's thrown backward into a cage that barely fits his legs, pushed ridiculously up against his chest. He doesn't stop thrashing for a long time — and doesn't bother yelling for help, because he knows there's nobody here who can do anything at all.  
  
He shakily runs his hand over his head, feeling the bristles of his hair, how it nearly sits upright on his scalp, how it's uneven and all foreign ridges, like the high and low points of a heart monitor. Then, though one eye is swollen shut, he surveys his impossible surroundings: the room is dark, just a mass of swirling, nearly invisible colors, but there are moans and growls and inhuman sounds chiming from all around him. His eye adjusts enough that he swears he sees the flash of claws, somewhere close by. His stomach churns at the sound of them scraping up and down metal.  
  
"... Hello?" he tries, swallowing his nausea.  
  
"Oh, lookit here," a sultry male voice drawls. "Looks like we've got _fresh_ blood... Hope you're ready for the party, son."  
  
Before he can ask the detached voice any of his own questions, the lights turn, worthy of a wrestling ring — they're blinding, nearly white at first, and his pupils shrivel into pinpricks before he can adjust his sight properly. When he finally makes out shapes and shadows, he finds himself face-to-face with a half-starved wendigo, sitting impatiently in a cage just beyond his; its long limb is between the bars in a flash, trying to reach the hunter, hunger rampant in its beady eyes. Wants flesh. Needs flesh. Its jaw is clearly broken, swollen around a sewn-up mouth. Sam's heartbeat startles as he sucks in a shocked breath, scrambling in vain against his own bars. The cage is small. The cage is small, and it is in a sea of cages, all thrown haphazardly all over the spacious warehouse like spilt building blocks.  
  
A vampire to his left laughs with his tongue out and his fangs bared. "Winchester!" it cackles. A cage nearby, full of what looks like empty space, slams back and forth as a hell hound howls — not so empty. A naked woman cries in the middle of her small prison, piles of skin shed all around her. He hears a werewolf snarling, smells the burnt flesh of something inhuman touching silver and sizzling in its own skin. Sam couldn't see where the filled cages ended and the walls actually began. He can only grip the bars, his good eye wide and panicked as he stares out at the ocean of danger, he himself afloat in a confining, sinking life raft; surrounded by sharks, with no help for miles and miles. The voices crowd him like nightmares, fill every inch of him with the urge to escape, and he slams his shoulder over and over into the door. Nothing. He jangles the lock violently with his hands, like a man drowning. _**Nothing**_.  
  
"Welcome to the jungle, Winchester!! Where the fuck did the black-smokes find you? Hmm?" the vampire continues, howling with excitement; Sam tries to block it out, sending the creature a hardened glare, but he continues, "Good luck in the ring, lad! Good fuckin' luck! A hunter in the ring! A hunter in the monster's ring again! How long'll it take for us to rip you apart??"  
  
He laughs and laughs and laughs.  
  
In the distance, beyond the walls of the warehouse he can hear people chanting; Sam has a feeling they're just wearing humanity as a cheap wool blanket, tucked over their heads. He thinks if he looked at them, they'd look back with black eyes. Sweat beads on his face, sliding slippery palms up the bars. _Dean,_ he thinks, desperate. _Dean, what the fuck is this place... Where am I?_ And then, with more determination: _Cas? Can you hear me? Cas...!_  
  
If he focuses hard enough, he can hear the loudspeaker in the next room, the man's voice rowdy and official, full of pleasure:  
  
"Send out the next bloodbath!" 


	2. How the Wild Things are Made

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam survives. Hard to say if that's the proper choice, at the end of the day.

 

It’s been a while since Sam has had to deal with such an overwhelming hunger. There had been… unpleasant times, times Sam doesn’t like to look back on for very long, but they bubble up over the surface, tease the matter of his brain every time his stomach gurgles. He isn’t able to hear it anyway. He can barely hear himself think, when the monsters are all riled up and thrashing around in their cages. He sits there alone for about three or four days (he thinks), tired grey-green eyes flicking through the sea of bars. Vampires with seared flesh healing slow. Wraith whittled down to bones, curled up in a defeated and bloody heap. To Sam’s horror, the sound of a small child, easily five, maybe six, as they cry for their mother; he’s not sure what sort of monster it is, but he feels bile in the back of his throat to think it a monster at all.  
  
“Kid? Can you hear me?” he calls out, and he thinks he hears them scream back.  
  
He’s not sure of much here.

  
That young voice is gone from the crowd on his fifth day in. That same day, he’s given a tray with grilled meat on it, and his haggard mind can only wonder what the meal is made of. It could be beef. It could be. But it isn’t. But if he ignores his meals, he’ll be weak. He’ll be dead — and then what about Dean? Dean, who’s trapped with the Mark, who had left him behind to face Metatron. If he didn’t eat, he’d either die eventually from malnutrition and starvation, or he’d die in a fight he has no doubt will be coming any day now.  
  
So — he eats. The apologies stream out of him like spit, like a rancid stain inside himself that threatens to cripple what little purity he had left that the Trials had provided him. He hopes it’s animal, over and over again. He hopes, and he wishes Dean would find him. If Dean’s even alive. For all he knows… He doesn’t want to think about it; he doesn’t want to think about anything but drinking, eating, and biding his time, studying the violent, desperate fighters around him.  
  
Often, he knows exactly when one of the monsters wins or loses based on whether the overhead lights snap back on — then their captors would push a squeaking, old cage back into its original position. The shapeshifter girl who had been dumped beside him all this time had returned, her body now that of a man, curled up and bleeding from numerous cuts. He sometimes attempts to speak to her — well, perhaps it’s a ‘him’, but it’s impossible to tell what she wanted to be without her saying as much — but she doesn’t so much as glance his way, curled in on herself as she sheds her skin and shivers from shock. The vampire that mocked him is always returning every round himself, covered in blood that isn’t his and chuckling like a madman; Sam’s not sure if he’s one of those truly bloodthirsty vamps, or if he just lost his mind somewhere in the middle of all this. Calls himself Vicks, though. Like the rub. The longer Sam has to sit next to him, the more he’s starting to think the guy really smells like that sharp, medicinal smell.  
  
Food comes in once a day after a while, with a bottle of water. Thankfully, it’s not always meat; he crams stale bread in his mouth and watches his black-eyed captors with enough venom in his glare to kill, as though his gaze alone could be a hunter prowling the woods at night, ready to find them, to strip them down to their bones. The demons just laugh him off, shake off his piercing glower like it’s the rain off a windbreaker. They see him as they do all the others, here in this place. He wears the same stained gray sweats, eats the same food, drinks the lukewarm water. Sam realizes that very early on, and is a little scared at how easily he accepts it, that he’s toeing the edge of being a monster himself.  
  
It wouldn’t be the first time.  
  
He wishes Cas could hear his prayers. He’s pretty sure those sigils on the walls are the cause of his disappointment.  
  
It’s not for a few weeks until he’s actually thrown into the ring himself. His cage is hoisted up and wheeled out like a fucking delivery at a store, placed down in the middle of a wide, rounded area that is packed with dirt. Sam brings himself to sit upright entirely in his claustrophobic prison, moving from side to side within it and trying to get a better look at the world around him — all he sees are murky shadows in the audience, the ring itself blinding; white teeth are barely visible as they laugh and shout, taunting him, their gaping mouths like nightmarish torturers, metaphorical daggers raised to cut flesh. Words, screamed to cut through bone. He thinks about the shivering shapeshifter, how her eyes looked pleadingly at the floor as through she wanted it to swallow her up.  
  
Sam’s door clicks open, and feels like it echoes through his bones as he stumbles out into the noise and lights, covering his eyes with the shade of his palm. The relief of freedom is bittersweet and short-lived. His bones are reverberating from the noise and clopping of feet against the outer bleachers. Across from him in the blood-smeared arena, a vampire with golden locks pushes open her own door as she’s done time and time again, her face bruised and stoic and both readable and unreadable all at once: her emotions are in check, but it’s enough to know she’s experienced, used to the thrum of energy that is the bloodbath. He doesn’t remember seeing her, but he does remember hearing about someone much like her sinking her fangs into a werewolf. That’s how they know each other, in the warehouse: they close their eyes, they listen, they learn. Sam’s a very studious boy.  
  
The vampire woman sniffs the air as if jonesing for the scent of human blood, hunkers down, and is ready — is hungry. He sees it in her eyes, a blue-gray color of sudden blood lust that looks through his skin, to the core of his beating heart. She’s not a taunter, doesn’t try to egg him on; she simply survives from ring to ring, licking her wounds in private before the next big act of utter violence. Before the next big meal.  
  
Sam only notices the array of weapons littered on the floor when his bare toes bump the dusty syringe on the floor. _Dead man’s blood._ Tools he’s alloted for the struggle close at hand. He lunges for the needle and the rusty machete as the vampire snaps her teeth his direction, and before he knows it, he’s rolling on the floor, the air rushing out of his lungs as she sits on top of him. She’s strong, so strong, and her teeth graze against his neck over and over as he shoves her back with everything he has — the syringe caves in beneath his shoulder, glass sinking into the flesh there. His muscles bulge in his arms. His teeth grate together. But the machete is in his hand. He swings it wildly before she can get to the vein in his pulsing throat, her right arm falling to the floor despite the dullness of a blade. Blood sprays across Sam’s forehead, relief in his eyes that it hadn’t hit his mouth.  
  
She howls, falling backward, and Sam swings his machete again. It lodges into her throat but doesn’t cut like butter.  
  
No, Sam has to straddle her and hack away at it until her decapitated head rolls and collects dirt. Her mouth works once, twice. Her eyes roll to look at him once more time before stilling. Dirt cakes the wetness of her wounds like the crumbling crust of a cherry pie, white bone jutting. Vomit threatens to climb up his sandpaper-rough throat, and he swallows it down like he does everything else, his humanity included.  
  
Sam has earned his first point. And ultimately, he’s earned his life for the day.

* * *

Sam fights for many weeks like this. Vampires, werewolves, black dogs, wraiths — a never-ending variety, a wave of things he’s always hunted. He walks away often with a limp, or a cut, or a mild concussion. A bruise here. A burn there. Swollen eyelids and lips. His pinky finger on his right hand has only just started feeling better after being broken, snapped like a twig. And yet despite his injuries, he’s gotten better. Stronger. Faster. He eats his food greedily, somehow savoring the taste — somehow finding it familiar. All he knows is he licks his plate clean and wants more, even as his stomach clenches and rolls over on itself. It’s better to just pretend you’re eating steak and greens. Lukewarm water is desert. Somehow he always finishes his plate wondering where the hell it’d all went so quickly.  
  
Every time he’s wheeled back into the warehouse after a fight, he passes Vicks, the thrashing hell hound, and the shifter that is always curled up. Today, the shifter is a young boy, bony and vulnerable. Sam is sagging tiredly against the thick bars of his cage and resting an oozing head wound when he finally gives in and speaks up toward the boy — partly out of sympathy, because the creature never seems to uncurl until it’s their turn to fight. Also, partly because Sam is lonely, isolated in his own mind, and he fears if he keeps this up for long he’ll go insane.  
  
“Hey,” Sam says, rubbing a hand over his unevenly chopped hair. How long has he been here again? It’s soft and messy on his scalp. He’s always allowed a blade to keep things short. Keep it fair. No hair-pulling in fight club. He winces as he shifts to lean the other way, his legs and back aching. This cage is so fucking small. “Shifter — uh. You. You… over there. Are you okay? You… wanna talk?”  
  
The boy looks over slowly, paranoia in his liquid-blue eyes.  
  
“No. No, I wanna go home,” he whispers. Sam’s honestly surprised he replied at all.  
  
He smiles, the motion wistful. “Yeah… Yeah, me, too. I’ve got a brother out there… don’t know if he’s okay.”  
  
“Yeah, I know your kind,” the boy replies, without malice. “Winchesters. You kill us for a living.”  
  
And… yeah. Yeah, it’s true. Sam couldn’t exactly deny the obvious. He was a hunter, and even locked up here, getting the life sucked out of him with every battle, he knows it’s not so far different from what he faces out there for a living. Sam figures this is the boy’s way of cutting off anymore conversation, so he lets him be, but it seems to not be the case at all; the boy lifts his head a little from his knees, looking curiously at Sam. His gray sweats aren’t big enough for someone his supposed age, and they hang pathetically off his hips.  
  
“You’re the nice one,” the boy says. “Your brother is the one who’d be better off here.”  
  
“He’s not — he’s not as bad as you’d think,” Sam’s quick to defend. The bruise that Dean’d given him on the jaw has long-since healed.  
  
The boy just sighs like there’s no convincing Sam of anything, turning his face away. That’s actually the start of many conversations. He learns the boy prefers to be a girl — she’s always been a daughter, always been the little girl in the family. Her mother had been adamant about hiding her from everyone else, from hunters and monsters alike. Of course… well. Then she’d been taken by this place. Snatched up on a walk back to her high school, back in Nevada. Her name is Glenda. Like in the Wizard of Oz. He mentions it, and she looks at him like he’s an uncool dad.  
  
“She’s the good witch, anyway,” he finishes, slumped over with a hand on a cluster of claw marks on his forearm. The bleeding had stopped, but he’s lethargic for now, the fighting spirit drained like a nasty boil. Instead, he finds some semblance of calmness, half-lidded stare focused on Glenda’s tanned face. She’s a older black woman today, and it makes him wonder. “Why change yourself so much, anyway…? I mean… you had a face you used every day, didn’t you…? Back home, with your mom and grandma?”  
  
Glenda fidgets, looking guilt-ridden. Her forlorn stare burrows into the earth once more, as it usually did.  
  
She shrugs, an aborted, tired gesture. Her left eyelid is swollen, bruises all over her neck. Sam’s gotten used to the pools of skin around her cage; honestly, at this point… however long it’s even been… there have been far more unpleasant sights. His stare flicks from the traces of an old identity around her, realizing she’s pulled her knees up close to her chin again. “Glenda?”  
  
“I just,” she whimpers, mouth working. “Being the good witch. I just want to be the g-good witch. But I learned how to fight… learned how to kill people really good here… If I just look like someone else until mom finds me, I can… pretend this wasn’t me.”  
  
Sam’s heart clenches. He pushes himself roughly against the side of his cage, reaching out with a long arm towards her.  
  
“Hey,” he says, nearly drowned out by noise. Always noise. “It’ll be okay, Glenda. My brother’ll find me. When he does, I’ll make sure you get home to your mom, too. Okay? You don’t deserve to be here.”  
  
She slips her hand through the cage, curling her fingers around his warm fingers.  
  
“There’s no place like home,” she breathes, a mimicry of his own words. “No place like home.”

* * *

Sam crumples into a heap back into his cage. Blood is running down into his eyes, the ragged tear in his hip bleeding freely as he struggles to sit upright into the confines of his cage, his home. Red slicks the iron bars. He coughs, and pain tears through him with every shudder of his body. Done in by a ghoul, he thinks. There’s no way he’ll be able to fight the next one at a healthy enough percent. His leg barely supports him thanks to the thick metal pipe lodged there through the muscle of his thigh, and though he’s considered pulling it free, he knows he doesn’t have the willpower to do it right now. He’d faint for sure, and if it had impaled the artery there…

  
Sweating and shaking, he collapses and curls inward. He vomits his daily meal.  
  
“Sam? Sam,” Glenda says urgently, trying to stand tall enough to see his face; her head hits the roof. “Sam! Sam, don’t die! Sam! You have to… you got to do something! You still got another round left. They’re gonna take you again, and you’ll be…”  
  
“ _M'not_ … gonna die,” he rasps. “Not me. Not gonna die yet.”  
  
He’s not allowed to anyway, never was. Dean says so. He wants to tell Glenda as much, but his mouth doesn’t want to work because he’s pretty sure he’s two steps away from blissful unconsciousness. Peeling open his eyes, he slides in his own blood, cheek red when he turns himself with all he has to look at the tall man in Glenda’s cage. Those eyes are definitely hers, though. “It’s okay. It’s gonna be okay. Dean’ll come.”  
  
He’d said it. He said it was him and Sam, fighting the good fight, together.  
  
… Then why was he here in this place? For so long? Why weren’t they fighting together?  
  
He closes his eyes, unable to open them again. Glenda’s desperate voice fades out into the vast expanse of darkness that blankets the mind. Everything is light, calm, quiet. There’s a squelching sound of flesh, the plop of it slapping the floor. Something reaches out and touches the heel of his foot as it juts a bit from his tiny prison. He hopes it’s not the demons, the wranglers. They won’t care how damaged of goods he is. They’ll send him out flat on his face in that ring. They’d enjoy watching him get torn apart, carrion in the den of mangy, bony lions.  
  
Sam’s voice says, “It’s okay, Sam. It’ll be okay.”  
  
He doesn’t feel his mouth move, though.  
  
He doesn’t feel much of anything for a long while.

* * *

  
When he finally does peel his eyes open, he finds Glenda’s cage gone. Carted away for yet another big fight in the ring. He slides himself to sit on his elbows, wincing at the swollen, stiff feeling in his trembling thigh. The claw marks aren’t bleeding now, clumped and sealed with ugly scabs. Pushing away his abandoned tray of food, he waits for Glenda. Waits and waits and waits as he does every time she goes away, expecting at times for her to be dragged by like so many corpses are. The excited, muffled voice of the announcer finally dies down in the distance. He can make out the words, just barely: “Aaaand it looks like that’s the end of the road for Sam Winchester! And he had such a good run, huh, fellas? At least that hell hound got itself a good rag to throw around!”  
  
Laughter, boisterous, rowdy.  
  
He’s so tired, but the confusion gives way to focused thought.  
  
 _It’s okay, Sam._  
  
“Glenda, what have you _done_ ,” he whispers, voice cracking. He drags himself to sit up, bruised and battered and shaking with fever. His listless, glazed eyes gain a sudden impossible clarity. No. No, no no — “Glenda… What have you…”  
  
The torn apart corpse of Sam Winchester is dragged by minutes later, barely a coherent image of the human body, twisted and mutilated and left frozen in fear.  
  
The demon dragging the corpse by the ankle stops, looking at Sam in the cage, mouth twitching and eyebrows furrowed. “What the fuck…” he starts, then grins. “Well, I’ll be fucking damned all over again. Shoulda’ checked the cage number I guess.” Sam doesn’t look at him, red-rimmed eyes focused on the mimicry of his own face, at the coagulated blood in her hair and the guts barely boweled up in her stomach, at her long limbs, one twisted around and around and held there only by skin.That would have been him. He would have died in the ring. He should’ve died. The demon chuckles like he’s reading Sam’s mind, then carries on with his job, dragging the body with Sam’s face away as if it were a heavy trashbag.

  
And Sam — spared for another fight, gory, eyes full and hot with tears — curls up against his cage and buries his face in his knees.  
  
 _ **Please.**_

* * *

The next fight, he kills his first human hunter.

* * *

Dean pops the lid on a fifth cold beer.  
  
His arms are smooth. Not a mark on them. The bunker is quiet.  
  
“I wish I could tell you where he is,” Castiel says softly, sitting across from him. In Sam’s seat. Castiel’s eyes are gentle and full of concern, and sometimes Dean can hardly stand it. Sometimes it reminds him too much of Sam. Sam, who is gone without a trace. “… He’s not in Heaven.”  
  
Dean bows his head. How many years has it been now…?  
  
“Maybe he’s — in Hell.“ 

He smashes the emptied can in his hand. 

This was _his_ fault.  
  
 _Sorry little brother,_ he remembers saying…  _It’s not your fight._

* * *

Sam limps out into the blinding lights. 

* * *


	3. How the Wild Things Burn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam descends and burns. Same song, different dance.

 

There is a certain point that Sam had realized that God absolutely loathed and despised him - drifted past apathy and into reviling, hatred, wanted to make Sam Winchester suffer with every ounce of his being. Of course, he'd suspected as much when he had fallen into Hell, because he'd called out to him wordlessly as he fell begging for something else, anything else. He didn't answer. Sam had always tried denial, tried to imagine God just didn't see what he was doing, the suffering he'd let ripple out over the earth. Sam liked to imagine God had put his fingers in his ears, closed his eyes, and hummed a tune while his angels were lost and his humans were bleeding and Sam was burning alive in a soup of his own flesh.  
  
Sam had realized God not only didn't _care_ , but he'd hated him utterly, in that bloodbath ring. And outside of it. Before and after becoming a wild thing.  
  
God had never been on Sam Winchester's side. He sees that now.

How stupidly late of him.  
  
Sam sits with his knees pulled nearly up to his jaw, crunched small in his kennel of a cage with unkempt hair and the beginnings of a raggedy beard — straw on the camel's back. The loss of nearly everything he loved was the start of a teetering pillar of resolve, when he was younger. Hell had broken in him ways that would never be salvageable, but he had come out of it with his old sins burned right out of his flesh (so he'd thought). The hallucinations were a small price. The physical agony of the Trials had been child's play compared to the torment of Dean's heavy, accusing stare, boring its way into his brain. The filthy taint of Gadreel still fizzled in his stomach, but he fought the urge to wretch, stood next to Dean even as his brother slowly began to push him aside and cradle the blade like the trustworthy partner and brother he'd always wanted.  
  
There's just — nothing now.

[[MORE]]

  
Dean has — probably abandoned him at this point.  He had been at the mercy of the Mark of Cain, something synonymous with murdering your kin, and wouldn't it be poetic to let him die buried in blood and guts, all alone? Sam couldn't dredge up anything it took to blame him. Really, for all Sam knew, he'd deserved it, being in a hell on earth what with his own time in the Cage blissfully cut short. He tries not to think of Glenda, years ago, poor Glenda. He tries not to think about Jeffrey or Hector, or Paula or Nadia. He tries not to think of the small nameless werewolf that impaled herself on his blade so that he would live. He tries not to think of the first time he laid down and refused to eat, prepared to waste away — and how they had threatened him back to life, telling him they'd gorge themselves on children's flesh right in front of him.  
  
He wonders if the people they're inhabiting are awake sometimes.  
  
What he wouldn't give to gut their bodies so that they wouldn't have to see what the demons have done with them.  
  
It would be the most merciful thing a man could ever do with his hands.  
  
He shudders to life when the demons come in; the roaring noise of the holding rooms is familiar, ingrained, easier to ignore. Today, he thinks. Today could be the day. The other days, the attempts to flee, they'd all failed. Sometimes he was too physically exhausted, or too injured, or there were too many. One time, he'd made it to the back doors. Ahaaa, one time. They'd kicked the shit out of him then and slit a man's throat so he could lead by example. Then they'd injected him with those fucking tranqs, made his limbs like spaghetti. Would it be monstrous for him to try again? Would they kill more people? Sam Winchester cares about that sort of thing; Sam Winchester doesn't let that go. He shakes his head, trying to focus. Still need the drugs to wear off entirely so he can think straight. They like when he isn't all there in the ring. They'd gotten bored of the fiery angry creature he turned into at the sight of them.  
  
He looks at the angel sigils on the walls, blinking tiredly. _Nobody's listening._  
  
"Up and at 'em, tiger," a demon with a pretty young woman's face says. She had her whole life ahead of her.  
  
These are things Sam thinks about, sometimes, to keep his humanity.  
  
She reaches over and strokes the bars of his cage.  
  
She says sweetly, "Guess which freckle-faced hunter is snooping around here?"  
  
Sam feels a trill of something tingle up his spine, naked hope hidden behind his bangs.  
  
_Oh, please._  
  
"He's on a hunt — found some of our corpse dumping sites. They're all monsters, of course. He'll probably assume they're all the clean-up of some excellent hunter group. I wonder how impressed he'll be?" He wants to throw his head forward, snatch her fingers with his teeth and tear. He cares about ruining the girl's fingers, though. He really shouldn't; vessels had never stopped them before, from tearing into them. He wonders when they stopped caring. The woman cocks her head to the side, smiling. "But then... hunters are getting far too common around here. It's alright. We've overstayed our welcome, anyway. So we'll be loading up, moving somewhere cozier."  
  
She taps on the bars of his cage.  
  
"Dose him up. Our prized fighters, too. You can kill the shitty ones any way you'd like, boys."  
  
Sam jerks upright with a snarl, slamming himself into the bars, his nails just managing to scrape roughly on her arm, leaving thin patches of blood. She just shakes her arm with a huff as he roars, "You piece of fuc—", which is all he manages before someone's hands reaches through the bars and grips his neck from behind. He kicks and writhes and chokes, shaking his head back and forth despite himself as the needle slides into his skin. Everything spirals out of his control, as it always has.

* * *

When he wakes up in the back of the food truck, he isn't aware of much, and his body still feels like jelly It's pitch black with the hoot and holler of creatures all around him as it's always been; his eyes adjust quickly, and he can see the faintest streaks of life dancing around, bouncing metallic sounds off the walls. His beard is shaven off, he notes groggily. His hair is cut down to the scalp again, probably with scissors — ah, no, probably just a blade, quick and lazy. He touches along his cage with hands that barely listen to him, feeling two walls, which means he's in the furthest corner. He must have been loaded into the truck first. On two other sides, he feels someone else's cage bars. Surrounded. Not unexpectedly, he feels a cage sitting on top of his, too.  
  
The engine is rumbling, and they're moving. They're taking him away — away from Dean, it means. He's not sure where the next stop is, but he knows that wherever it is, it'll have blood and guts and cages, too. Bloodbaths. He doesn't have it in him to cry about it, saves his tears for a rainy day, if he even has the capability anymore. Instead he tries to plot through a drug-hazed mind and figure out if there's a new way to break out; god help him, he still feels it, that need to get out. Get away. This can't be it; this can't be the end of it, how his life spirals to its end. And if - if he dies running, at least Dean'll find him and know he really tried. He really did.  
  
He mumbles incoherently under his breath, plans trying to stick in his ravaged mind. If he can get his legs to listen to him, he can kick the walls of the truck. Maybe someone out there on the road'll freak out and call the cops. Granted, he'd probably get arrested, charged with a shitload of things he had (and hadn't) done before, but at least he'd be out of one metal jungle and into another. And he's pretty damn confident that he can handle prison just fine nowadays. He can handle most anything. He's a fucking Winchester turned half-feral, for fuck's sake.  
  
He snorts to himself at the thought. Sam Fucking Winchester. Yeah, he's really great; just look at him. All drugged up to his neck in god knows what. It really — pisses him off. He clenches his fists, unfurls them again, lets the feeling and control return at a snail's pace.  
  
Then something explodes; the tire, it explodes, he feels it under them give out after a loud _crack_.  
  
Sounds suspiciously like a gunshot.  
  
He bites his lip, waiting for the miracle, years in the making.  
  
_Dean?_  
  
The noise around him is overwhelming, voices and screeches and wild sounds drilling deep down into his eardrums. He clumsily slaps his hands over them, clenching his eyes shut tight, wishing for it to go away. The sound. The sound. It never fucking stops —  
  
Well, it never stops until the truck tips over. A deafening crescendo of panic and violence blares around him as the cages clash like lightning, monsters smashing into their bars as yowls and sharp cracking noises burst like stars behind his eyes. His head slams into his roof and everything goes blissfully black.

* * *

"Good shot on that wheel, son. You got — _Jesus tit-fucking Christ_ , do you _see_ this?"  
  
The hunter Dean knows as H.R. pushes up on his hat, staring into the mouth of the opened food truck with bushy brows raised nearly into his hairline and a flashlight trained on the mess inside. It had taken a handful of them just to deal with the black-eyed bastards up front in the hot nightmare air; really, that was Dean's part of the bargain, when he'd agreed to get his hands dirty with the monster corpse business — mostly because he wanted to get him a live demon, wrestle some possible information out of them about Sam's whereabouts. Sam, who wasn't in Heaven, who could've been simmering in Hell... So far, the demons mostly just taunted him, spit in his face while he carved them up when their answers weren't sufficient.  
  
So far, none of them knew anything. Or if they did, they were willing to die on a blade instead of humor him in his little quest. But this — getting out there, doing what he could, this was at least something to keep his mind sharp... sharp while he ran through lead after lead. The corpse dump hadn't been extremely far from where Sam had disappeared that night, long ago. He had been sure to dig through it long and hard just to make sure there wasn't any sign of his brother's demise in the rotted mess (and then he calmed himself, because he was going insane, pretty sure); nothing but wendigos, wraiths, rawheads. He couldn't say he was upset at the loss there, since they were all supernatural things he ganked on a weekly basis, but something about it stunk about as much as the corpse pile.  
  
Hunters usually burned their kills. This wasn't the work of anyone he knew. And if it was, they were goddamn sloppy. He suspected something pretty quickly, but it was running into H.R. and his younger lady friend Tilmika that they clued him in on something sinister in these parts — food trucks that pass in and out, demon smoke sighted drifting through the night. It could be another stepping stone. Could be that someone knows where to always find a Winchester; god knows Crowley's been out of contact for ages now, and Dean frankly says good riddance. If the bastard couldn't help him, he was nothing but a reminder of Dean's fuck-ups.  
  
Dean leans in to look into the truck himself, his own bounty — a roped up demon fucker in those good old special handcuffs — left on the side of the usually desolate highway. The sight inside the truck was something out of a hunter's fever dreams. A vampire's wild eyes glinted at him, a wraith screamed and wailed with her arm swinging to grab at Dean's jacket. An Ōkami thrashes around, and behind that, a shivering rugaru licks blood off its fingers; there's a dead creature slouched in its cage, and Dean fancies that that was where the blood came from. The whole thing is an open mouth full of supernatural beings, all thirsting for a fight.  
  
Jesus.  
  
"Demons transporting a fuckin' zoo of monsters," Tilmika whispers, shaking her head, thick curls dancing on her head. "And I bet there's more where this came from, too. Can't fucking believe it."  
  
Dean could believe it, though he's thinking that's not quite where she was going with that; he remembers a human keeping a monster zoo. He's not surprised demons do the same. As they examine the sad state of things, the posse of hunters who'd agreed to follow along murmur their disgust behind Dean, and he finds he's too tired suddenly of this whole mess; he just wants to get out of here, get free. He's got a bottle of whiskey with his name on it, and a few torture tools singing for demon blood. Funny how that is; he's free of the Mark, but he still can't wait to get this bad boy home and give it a sponge bath in holy water. Dean takes a step back from the self-contained riots going on in each small cage, expression stony, cold. He just — wants to find his brother, and standing on the edge of a cold trail leaves him feeling frozen over, guilty. He gives himself some rotgut because he's not sure how else to handle that guilt that festers. After all, who had been the one to leave Sam there, at the mercy of whatever the hell took him away?  
  
"Guess we could be humane and shoot 'em all between the eyes," H.R. considers, and Dean snaps out of his dark thoughts.  
  
A guy in the back huffs his disapproval, some jarhead-looking guy with a buzzcut. "Let's just burn the whole truck. Grill 'em down to the bones. One swoop. Then we won't have to spend a million years trying to scrub the damn thing clean. We don't got much time 'til our fake roadblocks get found out, you know."  
  
"Demons sure are making things easy for us," Tilmika replies, nodding. "Burning it is. You wanna stick around for clean-up, Dean, or are you heading off? Couldn't blame you if you wanted to hook your fangs into that fucker." Dean glances back at the subdued demon, who's shooting daggers at him; yeah... yeah, he needs to get back to the bunker, or maybe just keep it short and simple and drag the bastard to some abandoned area for something simpler. It's a pain to have to worry about a demon in your trunk for that many hours, huh? He runs a hand over his face, nodding.  
  
"... Yeah. Yeah, I gotta get going. Good luck with your clean-up, huh?"  
  
H.R. gives him a pat on the back. "Mm. Call if you need somethin'."  
  
Dean eventually drives away, the last sight in his rear-view mirror the dark figures pulling gasoline tanks from their pick-up trucks.  
  
Well... at least they're getting a few more monsters off the streets.

* * *

Sam blinks away the fog he'd been left in, groaning at the bump growing on his temple. Shit. What had happened, again? It's hard to remember. If he could just shake it loose like water from the ear, get his thoughts set straight. The first thing he's aware of is the overwhelming stench of gasoline. It burns his nostrils and makes his eyes hurt, but it also serves to jar him straight into alertness; shit, what is that? There are lights, and if he squints through them, he can see bobbing heads. Trucker cap. Reminds him of Bobby, rest in piece. His mind is quick to supplement 'hunters', but before he feels any relief, he soon realizes it's too foolish to hope so soon: they're dousing the truck. They're going to burn them _all_ down, take out every monster in here (him, him too, but that's fitting enough). A little kitsune child is staring at him, shaking violently in her cage with her thin fingers curled on the bars. He can hardly stand to look at her and her blonde hair and terrified eyes.  
  
Some of the monsters are screaming obscenities. Some are praying. Praying to what? Sam's not sure.  
  
God doesn't care about them, either. God hates them, too.  
  
After all, look where they all go, when they die.  
  
Sam stares at a lit match held between two calloused fingertips, his voice lost in a sea of sound, and wonders —  
  
Will he go to purgatory, too, now?  
  
After all, look at him now.  
  
The kitsune cries out for her mother. The orange flame flickers brightly, carried like a proud torch toward the clutter of trapped beasts. And Sam — locked up tight in his little prison, aching, godless — prepares to face fire yet again in his lifetime.  
  
He's not afraid of a slow burn.

“It’s gonna be okay,” Sam tells the child, swallowing and remembering who he used to be, for a moment. He takes everything he has left of himself from before and delivers it all at this child’s feet, kneeling low and looking at her — _her_ , not the hunters, not the wild things in the truck. His lips thin into a smile, brow furrowing, and he feels like himself for the first time in a long time. “It’s going to be okay; just look at me, alright? Just look at me.”

She turns to him and obeys while Sam puts his hand over hers, through the bars.

And then he waits.

* * *

  
The demon laughs and laughs and laughs, bloody spittle peppering Dean's dull old boots.  
  
"You fucking idiot! You fucking joke!"  
  
It laughs, mouth and eyes looking misshapen in the muddy shadows of a warehouse a day later. It chokes on holy water, salt sizzling on its tongue.  
  
"Sam Winchester was in the fucking truck! You were right there! You were right fucking there!"  
  
It laughs and laughs and laughs.  
  
Cold with sweat and mouth suddenly too dry, Dean runs the demon-killing blade through its guts, killing everything the person inside ever was and ever will be with it.  
  
So why can he still hear it laughing? 


	4. How the Wild Things Run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's — what happened, the night before.

When Dean learns that Sam had been in the back of that truck, he makes the drive two times faster than he should have. He begs over and over for anything other than a smoldering wreckage — or anything other than a crew of police officers, shaking their heads and discussing roasted bones. He’d brought his FBI suit just in case. As if it fucking matters. If that truck is nothing but a burnt up memory now, he wouldn’t even  _have_ the composure to fake his way through the fake cop gig to get more answers.

Because it would mean that Sam’s dead.

There is absolutely no reason Sam is alive, right now, he knows. None of the hunters had called him to tell him that his baby brother had made it out of this one. Then again, calling their cells gave him nothing but tired old hunter voice mails. _Leave a message after the beep; if I’m probably dead, call so-and-so_. The usual. And that’s what Dean got. It’s the same thing he gets when he calls Sam’s cell phone sometimes, knowing his brother won’t ever pick it up; it’s just good to hear his voice sometimes.

God, he fucked up. 

He puts a few dents in Baby’s dash, and for once it doesn’t register, because who fucking cares about the dash? He’s fixed the dash a lot. He’s made her good as new.  _Sam_ , though. He can’t smooth the dents out of Sam. He can’t scrape him off the bed of a fucking diesel truck and pat him off, good as new. 

He thinks maybe he could be driving towards his brother’s tomb.

And it’d be his fucking fault, if that is the kind of shitty, miserable tomb that Sam had to be violently put to rest in. He combs his stiff fingers through his hair, knuckles thudding and bloody. A grim luck: no cops yet, as he pulls up to the grizzly scene. But why? Those construction road blocks couldn’t have stopped anyone from snooping after the likely black smoke rising up above that treeline.

His questions are answered, but he’s as unsure as ever before when he parks the Impala beside the corpse of a hunter. All of them are from the night before, actually, laid out in awkward angles. They’d  _fallen_ like that, and there were slit marks across their throats, coating the leaves tacky with browned blood. Dean feels a pang for them, brief and nothing in the wake of his fear for his brother as he steps over them to investigate the back of the blackened cargo.

“Sammy?” he calls, voice rough and — maybe a little desperate.

It’s a stupid thing, to call out. His voice echoes back at him from the singed metal walls. Inside, there are empty cages, bloody splatters, the remains of creatures that had burned awfully. And really, Dean hadn’t even thought twice about that, about lighting a bunch of monsters on fire; it’s not exactly humane. Isn’t what Sam would have wanted.

His stomach lurches.

There’s  _nothing_ alive in this truck. 

There’s no Sam. Or maybe there is. 

Maybe Sam’s just a smear now, a collection of bones lit up into ash.

And here Dean thought that meant Sam wouldn’t be able to haunt him. Yet he’s an entity, a memory, wringing all the junk in Dean’s chest that keeps him breathing. It’s like a weight over him, and he wishes that it had been Sam’s ghost doing it. No, Dean knows this feeling too well. The heavy sensation of guilt and loss that drags him to his knees. 

_He’s gone, he’s gone, he’s gone._

* * *

Here’s — what happened, the night before.

The wild things began to burn.

It’s strange to Sam that demons would be the bastards that took him in the first place all those years ago, and yet also be the key to his freedom. Or maybe it’s only fitting. Sam isn’t sure what to think anymore, after all these years. He’s not sure what he is, what to believe, what to do with himself. He had expected to die then and there in the back of a burning diesel truck full of caged monsters. He had expected to look into the eyes of this little kitsune child and watch her scream and tortuously go up in flames alongside him. 

Smoke fills the back, a thick cover that burns his eyes and makes them all cough and choke; the air tastes like burning flesh, embers drifting, some singeing small, red pockmarks against his skin. It’s all familiar to him, at the very least — the sensation of roasting in a cage, anyway. The metal is hot but his hands are still being gripped for dear life by the girl, her eyes clenched shut and teeth grown sharp and exposed. Just a knee-jerk thing, a reaction to danger. She’s afraid. 

There are quite a few monsters up front that die by the flame since they’d been openly doused at the mouth of the dark diesel bed, their voices crackling like the inferno throttling their lungs, and then things suddenly just —  _stop_. The smoke whirls and the flames die out like the pinched wick of a candle. Sam opens his irritated eyes, tears leaking down his face, and in the blurred world beyond him he hears the screams of things that aren’t in the truck.  _The hunters,_ his mind supplies. _The hunters outside_ are being butchered. He releases the shivering kitsune’s fingers to turn himself in the direction, and though he can’t make everything out that well, his ears are tuned in; in the darkness of the old warehouse, he had honed his other senses well enough.

Here’s what he knows:  _demons_.

 _Demons with back-up._  It doesn’t take them long at all to dispel the hunters at all, and he has to assume a demon with some pretty impressive pyrotechnic skills had killed off the blaze entirely. Likely… it’s the young woman, or rather, the demon  _shaped_ like one; the one who had told him Dean was coming; the one he’d raked his longer fingernails down the arm of, like an animal spitting and biting for escape. He almost slumps against the bars in some concoction of relief and despair but decides against it, feeling the heat rising from the iron bars. Plan, Sam. Need a plan.

“It’s okay,” Sam chokes out in a low, low voice. 

The kitsune girl crawls backward, her breathing uneven and heavy when the first demon steps up into the entanglement of dented cells. He tuts at the sight, as if he’d stepped into gum more than anything, but Sam focuses more on slumping forward like a drunkard. If he could just… If he could — just —

“Damn, this is a shitty ass mess if I ever did see one.”

“Mmm, it’s unfortunate. The hunters were quick on their feet tonight,” another says, and Sam knows now for sure it’s the woman from before. He can hear the  _thwump_ ing of her shoes as she walks through to the back of the holding area; at the beginning of her strut, the holding cages are all filled with dead, unidentifiable beasts. Toward the middle, there are upended cells with burnt but inhaling monsters, writhing or moaning or hurling strangled obscenities. There’s a little boy weeping and covering his ears in a cage barely fit for a bird, the top rounded, and the demonic thing doesn’t even cast a glance at him. No. When the woman gets to Sam, though, she gives pause — and gives her brightest and most friendly smile. 

“Sam. So nice to see you survived. I always knew you were made for bigger and better things.” 

Sam twitches. His heart stutters. His lungs ache.

But see — she makes one small mistake. 

And even a Sam Winchester with a head injury who’s just coming off of a high dose of drugs can _see_ it: she gets  _close_ , her hand skating the hot edges of his confines before dipping in to touch his chin, and he’s sure she’s preparing for another damnable speech about how he’s  _trapped_ , how he can’t  _leave_ , how he’s theirs now  _forever_ , but he’s not going to let her get to that point, no. No, no,  _no_. He won’t stay here. He won’t sit still. Instead, he lunges forward, clamps his mouth onto her soft forearm until the skin rips under his canines, and then he  _sucks_ greedily. Then it’s an explosion in his head, all  _blood blood blood_ , rich and vicious and sweet, sweet like nectar that makes his whole body warm and  _strong, enduring, more capable_ — !

The demon screams, pulling back — or trying to, anyway, but Sam pushes himself against the cage and bears the brunt of the hot metal, hooking his other arm around her. She  _can’t_ leave. A strange, hysterical giddiness floods his brain when he realizes he’s leeching the power right out of her, one drink at a time.

The only thing that stops him is the girl near him, crying out and shrinking away from the sight.

He lets go like he’s struck by lightning, the demon staggering weakly backward on her forearms like a wounded soldier crawling in the trenches. She’s sliding through the remains of her little empire, staining her business casual outfit. Sam puts out his hand with fingers splayed wide, ripping the black smoke out of her vessel like he’s yanking out the skeleton itself. In an eerie ripple of sound much akin to a verbal throe of death, she’s just smoke. She’d put out their fires here. Now he can put out  _hers_. With a clench of his fist, she’s turned into nothing. He feels her diminish so easily.

Sam doesn’t remember ripping open his cage door. 

He  _does_ remember how each demon’s soul felt, weighted in the palms of his hands, before he crushes them all into nothing. The hunters are all ragged dolls on the ground that he steps over. He can’t see straight, just sees the ring — full of demons, nervous and startled. They’re his enemy, and he has to fight, or he’ll die. And he  _can’t_ die. He spent years not dying, and too many monsters have fallen in his place for him to rip out his own throat now.

He wanders back into the masked supply truck to make sure nothing’s left to try to kill him in the ring; he kills the monsters left in there. Most mercy kills, some simply because he knows they’ll be coming for him next.

… Kills  _almost_ all of them, anyway.

When the red film over his vision has settled and he has to stop himself from throwing up on his own feet, he sees the little girl again. Trapped in her cage and waiting for possible freedom or death, her delicate hands wringing together as she looks at him in this way, this way that is doubtful and yet hopeful. He’d held her hands and told her it would be okay. But would it, really? What is there out there, for her? His drugged, haggardly mind tells him that she’ll die horribly, like Amy. After all, is that not what she needs, to survive? To murder? Dean had butchered his friend with the belief that once you’ve killed, that was it — 

And this child has no doubt been forced to kill someone.  _Something_.

And will no doubt be forced to kill for food.

But she looks at him like he’s a superhero. A shaking, high, rabid superhero, hopped up on demon blood, with hands so tense and locked, they look like claws in the darkness.

And beside her — a crying boy, a few years younger than her. There’s a burn on his leg, a shake of his shoulders. Worst of all, there’s skin sloughed off around him, and it’s only then that Sam realizes the boy looks different than he had an hour before. A shifter? A small, scared shifter. 

… Like Glenda had been.

“… It’s going to be okay,” he says again, feebly. Suddenly, he doesn’t feel so strong anymore… Suddenly, his legs feel like they weigh a hundred pounds each. Feels like the fire had gnawed them down to bones, weak and without stringy muscle, pale white. Where is he supposed to go? Back home to Dean? He’s got blood all over his mouth. He doesn’t want to be locked up in a room again, not again. Not in a cage. He doesn’t want Dean to call him a monster and turn away from him.

Or hunt him.

He looks around dazedly, horror and fear in his eyes.

“It’s going to be okay.”

“I know.”

Sam flinches, looking at the kitsune. She’s wrapped a hand around the thick bar in front of her face, green eyes muted in the dimness. It’s  _so_ dark, but Sam can see her… see her just fine. Because he’s…

He closes his eyes, runs his hands over his chopped hair.

When he walks away into the thick brush of the roadside forest, he has the girl’s hand clasped completely in his, and a small shifter’s sooty face pressed into his collarbone, as he takes them from the remnants of the traveling fighting ring. 

Sam isn’t sure if the world has looked any more frightening than it does now.

_But at least the bloodbaths are over._


	5. Where the Wild Things Rest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam comes down from demon blood, but he's not alone.

Sam’s lost somewhere as ugly as the ring, for a while.

He doesn’t comprehend much, in the fog he spirals down into, though he does feel the aftertaste of demon’s blood on his tongue, behind clenched teeth. A wooden roof keeps doing cartwheels but he can’t move, can’t feel his legs and arms as they tremor over a sweat-stained mattress. He’s vanished into a panic room again, only this time his mom and younger self are replaced with Glenda and Vicks and the demon who had drugged him and used him in that ring – his eyes roll wide in their sockets, bloodshot and bouncing from grotesque face to grotesque face. Dean leans in so close, the cloying, acidic aura of the Mark pours over Sam like lighter fluid to a corpse.

“You’re a monster, Sam. It hasn’t changed. Should’ve let the Mark take you a long time ago.”

“No,” Sam moans, the sad roll to his neck an attempt at a head shake. He’d thought he’d never see Dean again, not after they’d taken him, and this? This is how it was going to end all over again? With Dean looking down on him with the blade, that darkness in his eyes? That same awful distrust and – hate as before, when they’d locked him up and left him to unravel under the creaking, rusted fan, with the devil’s trap under his booted feet–

“There’s no one there,” a murky voice rings, repeating over and over, fainter and fainter. Sam growls like a once-bitten beast and swipes for the direction of the noise and it yelps, but then he’s reeling forward off the soiled mattress, face-first into an unforgiving floor. Someone cries out in surprise just as he feels his body fly up to hit the ceiling with a startling thump. His back feels wrecked as every part of him jutters. Every muscle in his neck cords. He looks down and sees a bed, a table, and then his vision rolls over and over and over until he just falls.

His nose explodes with blood and his teeth rattle on impact with the ground, and he’s pretty sure he’s nearly sobbing now, or maybe he’s vomiting, but either way the reasoning is the same. He’s a sick, sad creature, groping around for some kind of hope that doesn’t exist.

“Don’t leave me, Dean. Don’t – Don’t… I’m not a monster. M'not, m'not, I tried, goddammit, I tried so hard to stay like you would’ve wanted – ”

It’s not his fault, this time. He became a monster because… Because… He crawls toward the shadows in the corner of the room, shaped like what people probably look like. Something that feels like rage bubbles under his skin, a kind he hasn’t felt since Lucifer taunted him in the mirror. He used to be so angry, and after the bloodbaths… all those lives he pulled the cork on, watched them go down the drain… Those monsters who were no different than him, or the hunters with their steely gaze and determination to survive, all with heartbeats the same as his, and he – he… Rage. The demon’s blood makes everything feel like fire, and he wants to scream at the injustice. At Dean. Fucking Dean. Why did he take that fucking mark? Why couldn’t he just trust him instead of punching him out cold? Leaving him for this? He staggers on his hands and knees, eyes dark.

He’s always tried not to be sad. Being furious just helps more.

“You asshole. You never trusted me. I did my time. I  _did my time_!!”

Something that feels remarkably real – and very much like a small fist – hits him hard in the already broken nose. He’s used enough to the pain that it doesn’t elicit any kind of sound, but it does drop him like a bag of hammers anyway, and he lays there. Doesn’t bother getting back up. Maybe he kind of deserved that, trying to aim his ire anywhere but at himself. He could have just died, couldn’t he? He could have just given up and died and avoided years of pain. But who would have helped Dean…? Such an imperfect logic. Dean’s probably not even Dean anymore. He’s probably some shapeless creature like him now. Sam kinda’ sees a humor in the image of him right now, sprawled out and wet with perspiration and god knows what else, bleeding out of his face and failing against something he realizes is probably not even real. He probably just ran into a lamp or table.

He’s detoxing. It hits him like a brick wall. Ha. Fuck. Ha ha. He’s detoxing, and this is all just… him coming down. He tucks his head under his arms and chuckles. Someone else is crying – big, heaving noises that rumble wetly in his ears. Someone is carding their fingers through his sheared hair in gentle motions that reminds him of when he was younger and sick, and Dean was still little enough that comfort like that wasn’t a sissy thing to do. Or when Jess would help him doze off by petting him off to sleep. It’s what he used to do to himself as a child, when he imagined it was his mom comforting him instead of himself. A soft voice hushes him. He sobs again.

“Dean… I’m trying… I swear to god, I’m trying. It hurts so much. I don’t think I can do this.”

“It’s okay,” a girl’s voice says. Sam’s confused, but the hand in his sad excuse for hair is to warm and sweet and what he imagined angels to be like that he doesn’t move at all. Just closes his eyes, eyelashes clumped together, and breathes raggedly through the pain of roiling guts and a pounding in his temples. “Don’t be scared. He’s not gonna hurt us. He’s just sick.”

What’s she talking about…? Who’s sick…? He grunts and tries to move his arms. His fingers simply twitch at the notion. Through the veil of blurred shapes, a hand passes his vision. Something cool trickles into his mouth, diluting the taste of bile and poison; some of it runs off down his cheek, but he drinks greedily. Green eyes peer at him and there’s a familiarity in them, but he fades out of consciousness as someone tucks something soft under his cheek.

When he wakes back up, he hasn’t much moved, but it’s like everything is in a different color, a different texture. The hangover of the century, he’d nicknamed it years ago, and it’s so bad that he just pretends he’s asleep for another few hours. It’s only when he hears the telltale patter of feet that he peels his swollen, red eyes open to stare at children’s feet walking down a –

Ah, right. Sideways. Children’s feet walking around a wooden floor. Cabin, his mind supplies. Like the one Bobby had, only it looks way worse off. Deserted. He remembers a little bit now: he’d come here after he drank demon blood, after he’d gotten out of the truck transporting him (like cattle). There was a boy and a girl. His eyes widen and he sits up too fast, making everyone in the room gasp while every ligament in his body snapped taut in protest. Suffice to say, he collapses again, but at least he falls back into a rough old pillow.

“Fffffrea–fuh…”

Two girls – elementary school aged, one younger, one older – stare dumbfounded, and he stares back.

Two girls?

Ah.

Shapeshifter.

Kitsune.

He suddenly remembers the small pale girl, blond hair, green eyes. He’d held her hands in his and told her everything would be okay, just before the hunters had lit the cargo up with their gasoline and matches. He’d taken her hand and walked her out of there. Carried the boy. Who is now a little girl in baggy boy clothes, peering out from around the kitsune child with fingers in her mouth; Sam sees the edge of what looks to be a pile of skin in the corner. Eck.

“Tired of feeling weird in your own skin?” Sam asks with a sandpaper rough voice.

The kitsune relaxes a fraction, and the other just seems baffled.

“You’re Sam. You said.” Something about the sharpness of her cheekbones bothers Sam, but his guts also feel like they’ve been put through a blender and poured back in, so he can’t really focus much. Just nods numbly and winces when breathing through his nose hurts like hell. The girl swallows hard. “You broke it. I think. I punched you in it.”

His hand gets a mind of its own and slides up to palpate the sensitive space in the middle of his face. Yeah, definitely broken. He sort of remembers how he’d done a number on the ceiling. He also distantly remembers wishing someone would just cram a steak through the side of his head, pin him like a beetle in a frame; he wasn’t in the best state of mind.

Licking his cracked lips, he replies, “Feels like it… Sorry. I tried to hit you.”

The shapeshifter shrinks back further, as if she’s acting out the kistune’s shadow in a school play. She’s not that old, but she seems even younger than she looks; maybe she’s just screwed up, like they all are. Glancing her up and down, he can see the burns on her leg were gone now. Is that how shifter’s worked, again? He couldn’t remember. Been a long time since he dealt with a skin-shedder. The kitsune speaks up again.

“I’m Leia. Like Star Wars.”

Ah. Right. Monsters are like people. They like movies. Sam’s lips curve a little.

Leia squeezes the shapeshifter’s hand. “They keep giving me different names. Today she’s Tonya.” Sam ushers the strength to pull himself up, leaning against a defunct fireplace that is now mostly a place to house years-old soot. He’s not exactly embarrassed to find the smell of urine on his clothes; it’s not the first time he’s pissed himself, especially after his introduction into the monster ring and his small, sad cage. But he does feel a little flustered at how much he doesn’t remember, and how it’s clear now that all of the careful ministrations had been at Leia’s hand. The cabin must’ve been a thing they ran into once the withdrawals set in.

“Leia and Tonya… Um… Thanks,” he manages. For once, he feels calm. Eerily so. Then he remembers just how sunken Leia’s face looked, and that moment feels empty. He breathes out shakily and rubs the back of his neck, wincing. “You’re hungry. How long…?”

“A while,” she interrupts, looking anywhere but at him. Her hand rubs her stomach. Her green eyes dart back to him and she looks – at last – a little concerned for herself. “Are you going to kill me?”

“Don’t,” Tonya whispers, tugging her arm. The first real word she’s uttered as far as Sam can remember, but there’s concern there – and it feels like it’s such an uncommon thing these days, he can’t help but bask in the sincerity and care in it. In the ring, there’s nothing like that, not unless someone is moments away from sacrificing everything for you. Not unless they manage to have a cage next to you, speak with you for a short while before you’re pitted against each other or they die and leave you neighborless and in isolation yet again. Until the next person rolls in, ready to be wiped off the earth. The ringleaders were the judge, the crowd the jury. And him one of many executioners. He would be lying if he said he didn’t kill small monsters like Leia and Tonya in quick, merciful swoops.

Never with glee, though. He never sank so far. It has to mean something.

And now Leia is staring at him with those bright green eyes, holding Tonya’s hand as much for herself as it is for the small shifter. He licks his lips and shakes his head slowly. “No. No… I won’t kill you. I won’t kill either of you. We’ll – I’ll think of something. Okay? Won’t let you die like this. I know how to get you something… Just… need to hang on a little longer, okay?”

Leia nods, that small trace of fear melting away. She’s brave, incredibly so.

Wonder how many people she had to kill in the ring, herself.

She’s dangerous, too.

“How long… were you in the ring?” he asks carefully.

And she says, quite simply, “Long enough.”

She fetches him water from the stream a few minutes down the way, and he sits on the smelly mattress shaking and wrapped up like a true junkie. The worst is over, he knows, but he can’t shake that bubbling anger and despair. It has nothing to do with the demon blood. That’s just one of many things that tail-spinned in his life. He sits with Tonya beside him, more at ease after Leia’s reminder that he’s one of them – and it seems like Tonya puts a lot of faith in the girl’s short, sure sentences. Being near her reminds him of the baby he had Dean had saved, when Sam was soulless. Poor thing… never knew what happened to him. Looking at Tonya, though, he can’t help but wonder if maybe this kid is him. Guess it’s impossible to ever know, huh? It hits him hard, how difficult it must be for someone that young, absorbing all these memories, never really sure what is them and what is the people they take the form of.

“You okay?” Sam manages. He wants to sound like a person. People care.

Tonya shrugs, kicking her feet in her oversized pants. She’s just wearing the formal sweats they give to all the guys, her torso naked and a bit rounded in the stomach – like a normal little girl, instead of someone half-starved and forced to battle. He’ll have to get her a shirt. And actual pants. God, what the fuck is he doing? What can he even do? Even standing is an impossible feat right now, but he’s got a starving kitsune who needs human brains and a shapeshifting child who might as well be a herd of children, for all the capabilities she has. This feels hopeless. Sam’s given up on God and Dean rescuing him, on hope and faith and all that shit that he had tried his hand at and floundered with. But it’s hard to scrub out the desire to be something worth sparing from a hunter’s bullet.

If that’s worth anything at all.

“Why’d you shift?” he asks, in a gentle way that feels foreign now. “To fix your leg?”

Tonya glances up at him with those baby browns and wild locks and shakes her head like he should already know the answer. But if not for the leg, then what? He cocks his head to the side, and she seems to read him without words being necessary. She rubs her hands on her knees. “I’m everyone. Now they’ll never be dead. I promised I wouldn’t let them die, ‘cus they were scared. There was lots of little kids in the cages.”

She looks at Sam so earnestly, he feels his stomach drop like icy lead.

When Leia returns, she’s got a gallon of water in one hand. In the other, she’s gripping the antler of a large dead buck, pulling it through leaves and sticks before she deposits it on the step with all the effort of a man tossing his watering hose back to the grass. Sam leans against the doorway, looking down at the limp creature and its killer, whose eyes have gone yellow, pupils watchful slits now. Tonya peers out from around Sam’s long, wobbly legs. There’s a rotting pile of Tonya in the corner of the cabin that used to be 'Freddy’. He reeks like the black plague, nose swollen and sweat on his brow. Blood drips off Leia’s claws.

They’re all fucking messes. But he’s at least figured out the fireplace.

“… Well,” he starts slowly, testing, shivering fingers brushing just barely across the smooth antler that is still in her steely grip. “You wanna see what a deer pituitary gland tastes like for now?”

Leia licks her lips in response.

 


	6. The Wild Thing's Name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When they finally crawl into a hotel bed at two in the morning, Sam sits up with them reading out of a baby-naming book he picked up in a thrift store while sorting through kid's clothes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for a bit of mild gore stuff, warnings for suicidal mentions, etc. It's a dark verse despite how not-so-dark this chapter is. :|

Sam finds something to fight for.  
  
It's impossible to _not_ find something new, find something to fill the space that he had sacrificed to the bloodbaths, to the ring, filled with scorching white lights and chipped fangs and clumps of thick fur. Everything feels like it's moving at a snail's pace, when it comes to getting off the demon blood high — and he's plenty annoyed at the fact that just one hit of demon blood has thoroughly wrecked him this badly. But Leia and Tonya, they're here, and he's never been so relieved to have someone he can look at without having to do it between iron bars. Sometimes he still sees them. Sometimes.  
  
He wakes up on the mattress in the cabin again, his muscles aching, but for good reason: he and Leia had dragged the filthy excuse for a bed out to the nearest stream and scrubbed it clean (or cleaner, anyway), made it worthy of resting on. And before they even considered dusting up the cobwebs in the one-room catastrophe they'd hidden in, they ended up piling onto the refreshed queen and sleeping well through the day. Sam doesn't sit up when he wakes off and on, feeling the weight of Tonya's small body strewn sleepily over his legs. There's something calming about the way a child can snore and lounge like a cat over the most uncomfortable spaces. Leia meanwhile sleeps in the crease of his arm, pale face looking surprisingly at peace.  
  
Sam never thought he'd see someone look like that ever again, either.  
  
Not wanting to wake the wild monster kids curled up around him, he counts the planks in the roof over and over instead. His head is pulsing with a steady headache, but with it comes a slow trickle of plans. They can stay here for a few days, maybe, but they're still too close to the original site where the demons had killed all those hunters, there the burnings happened; so many of the wild things were burned into nothing but black-tar bones. He licks cracked lips.  
  
"Leia," he says, voice soft. Her hearing is so honed, her kitsune eyes are open before he can even get the whole name out, slitted pupils thinning in the beams of light bleeding through the damaged roof corner. Sam looks away from her to the ceiling again, voice rough from disuse. "Can't stay here for long, alright? Um. You - you can't live off animal brain, anyway. And they could come for us here. It's risky."  
  
He needs to formulate a plan - and that's even just for Leia's diet alone. He needs to figure out a way to hack into morgues, which isn't too diffiult; he did it a lot before. But in order to do that he needs a good cover, supplies for simple B&E's, a way to collect the food and keep it for her without drawing any hunter attention. Easier said than done.  
  
Leia sits up slowly, her blonde hair sticking out every which way.  
  
Cautiously, a question: "You'll help me eat?"  
  
Sam's quieted by the uncertainty, surprised by the fact that he's not uncertain at all. It hadn't crossed his mind to wash his hands of them. No, not since he'd woken up from his demon high. He's honestly so far beyond anything good and clean right now, so thoroughly ruined, there's not much he can do other than try to salvage these two hungry, nervous children. That's really all they are. Even if Leia's a killer in her own right and took plenty of lives herself in that ring, there's this hopeful look flickering in her eyes that he just can't ignore. It reminds him of a _Sammy_ , a kid looking into a dirty mirror, wondering if God and his angels were watching over him if not his mother.  
  
He clears his throat.  
  
"Listen, Leia... It's not going to be easy. I'm not sure how to - be normal like that, right now. It's been... years. But we can do this. We'll... do this. We have to. You and Tonya, you just need to blend in, too. I know how to try and do that, but you have to be willing to do it, too. So that nobody comes after you or me. Okay?"  
  
Leia sits there, hunched, her hand stroking through the other sleeping child's hair absently. Likely a comfort to her more than a comfort for the shapeshifter, who is sleeping so soundly, even on the uncomfortable hills of Sam's kneecaps. The kitsune's brow is furrowed, but she's absorbing. Thinking. She's such a sharp tool in the shed, Sam can't help but be a little fond of it.  
  
"... Jasmine. She's Jasmine today," she says softly. It takes him a moment to understand, but then Sam sits up slowly - painfully - to study who he knew as ' _Tonya_ '... who is, in fact, a new little girl. She sucks on her fingers, olive-skinned with thick black hair in loose ringlets on her head.  
  
Sam winces. "... We're going to have to settle on a name for her, too, or else we'll always be confused."  
  
That'll be on his to-do list. Settle on an actual name. Maybe get one of those books parents get when they're expecting. They still make those, right?  
  
... He has a long to-do list, and a lot of it sounds insane.  
  
For a moment, and not for the first time, he wonders how peaceful it would have been if the detox had killed him. It's a familiar thought, different method, same outcome. Instead of entertaining it any longer, though, he tucks Leia's head under his chin and lets her sleep for a few more hours. He supposes he should thank these two; if Tonya-Jasmine hadn't been so heavy, he might have had the gumption to find a place taller than him and hang himself off it. He can't find it in him to try when there are two children who keep looking at him like he'll have all the answers. Like he has any at all.  
  
He closes his eyes and sleeps, because it's better than not.  
  
The next day, when he's a shade darker in the face and a few mighty mouses stronger, they clean up the cabin enough to play pretend in it for a week. _Play pretend with a dad and sister and me_ , Tonya-Jasmine's own words, the most she's said since Sam had picked her up and carried her inside the decrepit place. Sam humors it, but the thought of it makes him a little sick, because this isn't a family. He's not a dad. He's not worth that weight.  
  
The fireplace is woefully unused, but they can't afford to attract any kind of attention, not right now. Leia's tough enough to hold her own for a hot minute, but she's still a kid, and Sam's - well, Sam's about as strong as a toddler. Which is an improvement, but it's by no means the stampeding, desperate man with a silver blade in his hands. He thinks, _just a few nights_. Leia beats the crap out of an old blanket until the dust is shaken free, and Sam allows them the pleasure of going out into the cooler air to lay down and stare at the stars. It's beautiful out in the middle of the forest, a piece of humanity beckoned back to him when he stares at the hole-punched swathe of inky color above. He hears Dean's voice on the wind, a ghost from years and years and years passed.  
  
_'Wow, Sammy, get a look at the stars; that Virgo, what a babe.'_  
  
He misses Dean.  
  
It's too bad that Sam's gone. The one Dean would want to see again, anyway.  
  
Tonya-Jasmine smiles around the fingers in her mouth as Sam quietly tells them where the different stars are. If he's honest, some of it is fuzzy enough that he just bullshits a few answers, but they both look so satisfied with it despite his less enthused tone that he makes a note to correct any of his errors later. All things said, it's yet another welcomed moment of peace. But then, everything feels like a moment of peace now. Doesn't it? Or something like it. It still counts at peace even when he's scanning the world around them at all times, isn't it? It's got to be.  
  
How the hell is it so peaceful, and yet he feels like the world is still crashing like an unreadable storm around him?  
  
It smells so good out here. Pine needles and spring water and the scents of wet earth under his hands when he reaches to pluck at it. But sometimes, he smells the blood.  
  
Always the blood.  
  
Like the sticky wetness of a machete after a fresh kill.  
  
The longer he stares at the stars, the more sinister they feel, like his past is bearing its teeth at him.

* * *

  
"Okay - do _not_ shapeshift anywhere that there's people. You understand?"  
  
Sam adjusts the heavy winter jacket on Tonya-Jasmine-Robbie-Caleb's tiny body until the shapeshifter is comfortably rounded like a colorful slip-slidy burrito, leaving Leia to adjust her own cap in the rearview mirror of the old stolen Toyota truck. Caleb - Sam'll call him Caleb today - nods earnestly and Sam prays the kid will actually keep to it, because Sam's mortified enough as it is at the idea of entering a diner in the first place. For one, it feels too close to the days _before_ the bloodbaths, and for two, he's not so sure he wants to pretend he's normal like that. He's not. He's got parts of human brains in a compartment on the truck for a kitsune who is asking for waffles with butter. He's got a rosy-nosed kid who has no name but also somehow has _dozens_... who tends to leave trails of what looks like viscus every time they change into someone else.  
  
And here _he_ is, finally parking after a three-hour drive, walking into the smalltown diner for a bite to eat, feeling like an outsider crossing the yellow tape. Is everyone looking at him? He feels like everyone's looking at him, like they know he's got blood on his hands - blood on _his fingers_ , so why is he clasping these two kids' hands like they're lifelines, huh? Leia watches him curiously for a moment, and whispers, "Sam, you're freezing up again," and just like that he snaps out of it. If Leia notices his palms are sweaty, she doesn't mention much of it. She even squeezes back. Strange that she broke his nose a few months ago. Caleb, he's just fascinated by the claw machine. Leia leads him away from it in that strangely patient way of hers while Sam's left wondering if he's actually the capable adult here in their group.  
  
He locates all the exits with heavy glances left and right before a waitress looks up at him and bashfully leads him toward an empty booth; he brings up his best and most friendly tone from days past to ask for the one near the window and door in the back; his smiles didn't always feel like they were cracking his face like this. Caleb crawls up onto the worn seats and Sam gets to work undoing the gloves and bulky jacket all over again (go figure, is this what Dad dealt with?). Leia neatly reads off the kid's menu until Caleb tries to eat his crayons and she reaches out to demonstrate how it works. "It's not like the store candy, Caleb," she says. Sam watches the two of them across from him.  
  
Eye of the storm.  
  
He shakes his head, lips twitching into a smile.  
  
"Are you ready to order?" the waitress asks, and Sam and Leia nearly jump out of their skins (wouldn't Caleb have just loved that). He can see the _kitsune_ flash in her eyes before she ducks away sheepishly, and he remembers how to be charming yet again to keep the waitress satisfied with her customers; it's not that he can't remember how to be suave in theory - he just don't have the desire to fake it. The food arrives whether he is or not, really. Eggs, hashbrowns, pancakes. Caleb snacks on fruit in a cup, Leia slurps up bacon covered in ketchup and syrup. Sam eats a little less than his body likes, but it's food. Said body can't complain anymore - other than send off warning alarms that this _isn't_ what he's eaten for the last few years.  
  
He doesn't want to think about what he's eaten in the last few years.  
  
"I have to pee," Caleb whispers suddenly. And then again, a bit stronger, "I gotta' pee."  
  
Funny how no matter which kid's face he has that day, they always seem to need to piss every five minutes. He sighs through his nose.  
  
"Alright, alright. Let's go, you sieve."  
  
Leia elects to stay where she is during her unholy race to consume everything left on the table, her abdominable stomach less than pleased so far. Sam leads Caleb into the men's room with all the hesitation in the world leaving Leia out of his sight. Dean used to just stand in the stall with him because it wasn't a big deal when they were younger, but Caleb's determined to just do it himself, so Sam lamely stands and waits on the outside. The egg and bacon assaults his stomach in the meanwhile, and he feels a cold sweat prickle his neck when he thinks of just how close together the polished walls of this place actually is. They really need to get back on the road. The road always makes him feel better.  
  
Sam's shocked back into reality when Caleb gasps, cries out in surprise.  
  
Then there's an ugly splattering noise, soft wet flesh on the inner walls of the stall, gore streaking the tiles like nightmarish morning glories. Sam's heart lurches down into his stomach and his knife is in his hand in an instant like it's just always been there - his knife is in his hand and he's ready, he's _ready_ , the stall was empty before Caleb went inside, how is Caleb already dead, how is Caleb dead when there's no more bloodbaths and no more of the ring _and the lights_ -  
  
But Caleb is not dead. He's just. Another kid.  
  
Caleb is _Tonya_ again and he's — _she's_ crying into her balled hands, her shirt covered in blood and skin, and there's an ear on the floor and matted clumps of hair on the wall, slip-sliding down. Sam stares in disbelief, too allayed to see her alive to be angry just yet ( _I said not to turn, I told him not to change, I told him_ ). He lunges forward and picks her up with her pants still awkward around her ankles, rushing her to the sink to clean off what used to be Caleb. "Hey, okay, calm down - calm down, it's _fine_ , it was an accident, right?"  
  
"There was a spider," Tonya cries, and repeats over and over, "Caleb was _scared_ of spiders! I couldn't be Caleb anymore, he was _scared_ of spiders!!" Sam pulls the whole damn roll of paper towels out of the dispenser, wipes down this revisited face with heavy but careful pats, and prays nobody investigates the noises when he trips over the trashcan, or the way this child that _isn't his_ and didn't come in with him by all _logical_ accounts is bawling her eyes out. _I can't do this,_ he thinks for the hundredth time in the last few months as he does it _. I can't do this, I can't take care of these kids, I can barely handle myself. What am I going to do? What am I going to do?_ He rubs a hand over Tonya's head and she hiccups and coughs and possibly considers vomitting her fruit cup. By the time Sam stumbles out with this waterlogged and whimpering child he didn't walk in with, the waitresses and diner veterans have their eyes on him and her; before he can even think, he's snarling at them like they plan to rip the kid out of his hands and feed her to him. He'd fight them all, maybe even hurt them. Maybe even worse. He'd pull them into the world in his head and protect what the ring spit up and left ot him. And that scares him.  
  
Leia is rushing to meet them halfway with wide eyes. The dots were connected fast, for her.  
  
"Grab his - her coat," Sam stammers, and Leia obeys.  
  
Before anyone can even think to descend upon him for questioning, he's slipping through the exit door with his snotty cargo. As he hits the gas and they drive off at admittedly illegal speeds, Leia pulls the red-faced Tonya into her lap and cranes her head to the side in that offensively calm way of hers. "... The waiter lady's screaming in the bathroom."  
  
And funnily enough, Sam has absolutely nothing he can say to that other than, "Put on your seatbelts."  
  
... They're _so fucked_. He rubs a hand over his eyes and laughs hoarsely. The delirium's kicked in. They're so, so fucked.  
  
He drives and drives and drives until morning turns into night and his ass is numb and Leia's drifting asleep leaning against her knuckles, and the next time Tonya has to pee, he checks the gas station restroom for bugs anyway.  
  
Just in case.  
  


* * *

  
When they finally crawl into a hotel bed at two in the morning, Sam sits up with them reading out of a baby-naming book he picked up in a thrift store while sorting through kid's clothes.  
  
Everyone in the bed votes for Lilly.  
  
The calmed, small shapeshifter smiles, whispering, "Lilly can be _everyone's_ name, now."  
  
Lilly wakes him up at five in the morning to let him know _everyone's_ got to pee again.


	7. How the Wild Things Eat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fretful expression on her face tells him it’s time for him to be functional again. To be useful. The idea that either of the smaller wild things could die and leave Sam with another cold body makes him light-headed. He has to go out again tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for violence, blood/gore, mental illness.
> 
> It gets a little more dangerous.

Hotel-hopping is a completely natural state of being in Sam’s life.  
  
Between the gore, stitches, and cheap convenience store meals, one thing a Winchester knows and knows _well_ is how to check for bedbugs or cigarette butts. Once a scrappy Sam had found an abandoned doll skipped over by the cleaning lady. Dad had flushed lord knows what down the toilet on one occasion with an exasperated grunt, and to this day Sam’s utterly curious about what it was. He’ll never know; maybe if he finds his father someday in the afterlife, if he’s even allowed in Heaven, he’ll ask him. Crack a beer open and drink with him, too. And not like before; not because his father is despondent or lonely or depressed like the past, but to just have a beer with his son for the hell of it.  
  
Maybe that’s just a fairytale he made up after John passed away.  
  
But… Yeah, this? This is _easy_. This is a robotic series of actions he can easily journey through, a linear path like the hands on a clock. Time passes fast some days, tortuously slow others. But even if the peeling walls of the room somehow feel more claustrophobic than even his small cage in the warehouse, he knows how to do all of this because he was raised on it: fake credit cards, hotels that don’t ask questions, and anxiously checking all the locks, windows, and doors. And of course, pretending these children are his without looking _uncomfortable_. Now  _that’s_ truly his best acting thus far in life.

  
It’s not out of disgust for them, of course. It’s transcended anything a _hunter_ could feel toward someone who isn’t human… It’s just that he feels sorry they’re stuck with _him_.  
  
There’s something a little sweet in the way Leia and Lilly accomodate themselves in each room that they live in, usually for a few days at a time. One thing he can say about Leia that couldn’t be said of Dean and Sam at her age — she always gave Lilly the remote control. Maybe because the channels aren’t that great anyway. Or maybe because she just wants the shifter to be happy, after such an absence of it. He’s not sure, but it gives him a fraction of ease he didn’t think he’d be capable of; it’s not much, and he always feels like a tightly wound wire ready to snap, but it’s _something_.  
  
He brings them nachos covered in cheese from the 7-11 nearby and they literally lick down the paper containers and each of their fingers. With how long they’d been in cages, too, he’s not surprised that he has to start buying twice the amount of grub that he’d initially estimated. He sits back on his bed and just observes them, like they’re a television channel of their own, sometimes drifting away so far into himself that he _blinks_ and the morning sun has faded. The kids stare at the late-night toons on the screen as their eyelids drop with exhaustion. How he loses the time, he’s not sure, but it scares him a little. Can he keep this fake skin from peeling away and revealing what formed beneath it? That’s the question of the century. Of his century.  
  
It’s sort of pathetic, he thinks. He’s been tortured for decades. He’s bounced back — internalized and compartmentalized, _sure_ , but he was… _partly_ okay. He could _pretend_. Now… he’s not so sure. He feels rusted, crumbly every time he functions.  
  
He stops gnawing his lip bloody and tries to relax. Nearby, Leia’s hand touches her stomach, a wince puckering the corners of her eyes. He practically feels her hunger in his own flat belly when she looks at him, a little more pale than usual, the bags under her eyes a bit more pronounced. The fretful expression on her face tells him it’s time for him to be functional again. To be useful. The idea that either of the smaller wild things could die and leave Sam with another cold body makes him light-headed.  
  
He _has_ to go out again tonight.

* * *

The morgue’s smell is as natural to him as hotel-hopping. Before he’d been taken and shoved into the bloodbath ring, he probably would have thought the normalcy was funny in some way; maybe he’d even joke about reconsidering his occupation. But he doesn’t do any of that now. He has nobody to find it funny with, anyway. Instead, he shoves his gloved hands into a corpse’s skull and pulls up and out the brains like they’re the ingredients to a cherry pie he has no idea how to make. Thank god Amy gave him a clue of how to go about this; how she did it for so long, he’ll never understand, but there’s a respect that comes with relating to a monster who picked at brains for food on a daily basis. There’s so little choice, so little freewill in surviving as a monster like this. When he sees the withered, sad state of what a pacifistic kitsune would eat, he recognizes the fear that must’ve weighed on his childhood friend. He thinks what she surely must have in her muted panic: _What if this shriveled, sad thing isn’t enough for this child?_  
  
 _Focus, Sammy,_ Dean’s voice says. Sometimes he hears it, and he wonders if he’s gone mad. “Got work to do,” he continues in a whisper, and the brain slips into a jar with a crystal clear splash. He bags the glasses, the scent of rot and blood strong, while every instinct is trying to drag him back by the ankles into memories of violence. There’s a distant _thunk_. He jerks into attentiveness as a door swings open somewhere in the building and ducks low, because someone is patrolling the area, the jittering beam from their flashlight flicking in and out of the windows. Cross-hatched shadows dance on his face, his eyes pale-green and pupils pin-pricked in the dashes of light. He quickly collects his things and pulls his gym bag over his shoulder, the jars inside wrapped in shirts. Quieted and unable to go tinking together.  
  
This is the first time he’s been interrupted during one of these midnight dashes for the dead. There’s no time to put away the slabbed bodies and close the doors, no time to cover up his careful messes. He moves quickly through the corridors, sacrificing speed for silence. Apparently it’s not enough — he hear’s a telltale click of an alerted gun and sucks in a breath, dropping his entire body like a sack of rocks to the floor. It’s all the time he has before the buckshot sprays through one of the mortuary’s windows and glass scatters into his hair and shirt collar. A bitten curse later, and he finds himself nearly hit by the door as it swings - flies - open. Flannel, ripped jeans, boots. He almost expects Dean. He does expect Dean.  
  
It’s not him, but Sam recognizes it instantly. It’s a hunter.  
  
A hunter that growls, “Eat _silver_ , freak!”  
  
“Wait—” Sam gasps out, but this guy is young and brash, ready to tear the head off anything he puts his sights on without so much as an inch of conversation (Dean as a teenager, Dean as an adult, Dean always revving to go, ready to fight the fight). The shotgun is already being re-aimed at gut-level, and Sam’s vision switches between the nose of the weapon and the guy’s twisted grimace. He thinks of Leia, of how _hungry_ she was when he left. He thinks of Lilly, and how alone she — he — they — will be if Sam _and_ Leia die. Hell, the kid freaks out at the sight of spiders and hides from thunder. She still sucks her thumb when she stares out the truck window.  
  
He can’t let this happen when they’re _depending_ on him. He lunges forward and slams his shoulder into the hunter’s stomach, the wind rushing out of both of them as they topple. Sam collapses on top of him — has an edge over his opponent — but the hunter isn’t any scrawny chicken despite his youth. He’s all muscle and is nearly Sam’s height, and no amount of difference matters anyway when he smacks the butt of his gun into the side of Sam’s head; he sees stars, but not the full constellation. The world spins as they roll, a tray clattering nearby. A few of the jars are broken, seeping through his abandoned duffel.  
  
Doesn’t matter. He can’t die now. He has to redeem himself. He has to save someone, _anyone_.  
  
But not this hunter, it seems.  
  
He didn’t _plan_ for him to die. He didn’t go into this to kill him, but when he jumps for another disarming tackle, they go flying into the equipment like crash test dummies. Something _snaps_ , _cracks_ , an ugly noise that Sam knows intimately — bone. Spine, bowing and fracturing where it matters most. But Sam didn’t do it, he _didn’t_. He didn’t mean for it. He didn’t mean for the back of the hunter’s neck to hit the edge of the table like that. He doesn’t mean for him to crumple, dead, in a heap. He straddles the empty body’s stomach with all the intention in the world to start raining punches, but the fire is all but sucked out of him like a smokey backdraft. An empty stare greets him like a familiar old face in a nightmare, severing his good intentions in his sleep.  
  
Sam staggers to stand over the warm body, expecting to hear the roar of a bloodthirsty crowd… but all he hears is the heaving from his own burning lungs, the pitch of it rattling as he teeters toward the edge of a numbed, tingling panic. He’s got a cut on his face that bleeds freely and sweat in his eyes, Someone’s dead again. _Another_ murdered hunter. They were supposed to be his people. They had plenty of reason to hate him, but they _were_ his people. Slowly, he sags down onto his knee. He puts his hand to the man’s crooked neck, looking for a sign of life, waiting for the thump of dying adrenaline in the young man’s system. Only a grim stillness meets the pads of his fingers. Has it always been this easy, to take someone’s life? It was literally just a split moment. He wasn’t _trying_. He _wasn’t_.  
  
But he’s dead, regardless.  
  
Another dead hunter, his mind repeats. Sam’s killed so many that it shouldn’t _hurt_ as much as it does… It’s just… He’s a kid, really, no older than Sam when he went back into the hunting life. He must have trailed the mysteriously ransacked morgues all by himself, must’ve noticed Sam’s desperate pattern of sliced-up bodies that were conveniently missing pituitary glands, must’ve assumed he had a kitsune case on his hands. He was doing a job. That’s all. And as always, it ends bloody and sad, but Sam can’t help but wonder if he should have surrendered his piss poor excuse of a life right away and gave this hunter a longer, bloodier place in this world.   
  
Sam wipes the back of his hand against his mouth, feeling sick to his stomach. “I’m… sorry.”  
  
Leia’s hungry.  
  
He moves to the gym bag clumsily like his legs are fucking stilts, relieved that _most_ of his work hadn’t been destroyed by the scuffle. This is enough for… a little while. Hesitantly, he glances over his shoulder, eyes following along the man’s face; his brains are fresh. He feels sick, so sick, but those are fresh brains that will go to waste - they’ll be wasted. His world _spins, spins, spins_ while he hears the roar of the crowd now, the stench of victory. The color of victory. Something smooth and wet sits under his palm. He feels something bony and hard along his fingers. When he comes back to himself, someone’s seeping mind is in his hands. The hunter’s head is empty.  
  
It’s _fresh,_ though.  
  
He doesn’t burn the body. That’s something a hunter does for another hunter. It’s not him anymore.

* * *

Leia gives him an anxious look between feeding on the spoils of the night, like maybe she wonders if Sam’s too far gone now. He’s not surprised, and if anything, he’s more worried she didn’t question his questionable leadership more to begin with. And honestly, after he had scooped the three of them up and drove for hours yet  _again_ , he thought she’d have been way more freaked out. But whatever she’s pondering, she doesn’t voice any concern - just wipes her mouth and breathes out the stench of copper before she slides to sit beside Sam on the motel bed. He looks at her and then the sleeping child on the other bed, feeling - not for the first time - strangely distant, like he’s looking into another world.  
  
They both’ll need more clothes, he finally thinks.  
  
“Did you mean to?” she asks at last, what feels like hours later. Leia glances at him, and he glances back, a little life bleeding back into his face. She looks so patient with her hands on her lap and her expression free of contempt, of hate or disappointment or anything Sam sees when he looks into a mirror. “Did you mean to kill someone?”  
  
He shakes his head.  
  
She’s far more pleased by the answer than she should be. “It’s okay. You’re good. We promised to not hurt anyone, but you’re the one who goes out. You’re the one in danger. Sometimes bad things happen.”  
  
Story of their friggin’ lives. Sometimes bad things happen. How long will they happen, he wonders? Or is this just his life, as it has always tried to be? After all, he still killed someone innocent; there’s a monster wearing his skin, the monster he’d met after Dean went to hell, before he had freed Lucifer - the man who was willing to burn himself up to kill Lilith, who enjoyed the flavor of demon blood and the idea of being worthy, of being freed from his darkness by using it to protect the world. He’s worse now, though. He’s aimless, without a goal in mind other than stay alive, keep them alive. That could very well be all it has to ever be.  
  
He runs a hand through his hair, which has finally grown in a little since it had been cut so roughly during the bloodbaths. Even as despairing as he feels sometimes (or worse, because feeling nothing is when you know you’ve well and truly lost), there’s a strange comfort in sliding his fingers there and finding familiar, loose locks. From beside him, Leia blinks up, then smiles a thin-lipped smile.  
  
“You need to shave.”  
  
“Huh?”  
  
She pulls on the scratchy length on his chin, and he’s genuinely awed that it’s long enough to do that. Her nose wrinkles.  
  
“It’s oily and gross. We’re people now, right?”  
  
He stares for a beat before his own reluctant smile pulls on his face, exhaustion in his eyes but a genuine warmth in the way he pats her on the head and musses her blond hair. She doesnt react like a surly kid, doesnt bat at him like Sam used to do to Dean at her age, but she just gives a victorious little smile. She knows so much more than any child he knows out there. Part of him is sad, that she had to grow up like this - as fast and him and his brother - but part of him is proud.  
  
He’s not sure what to do with that.  
  
He showers until his skin turns an irritated pink, and when he returns, Leia’s sleeping peacefully next to a clingy shapeshifter with a tendency to hook her legs around whatever is closest. With all the hesitancy in the world, he cups his hand to Lilly’s forehead and brushes her bangs back soothingly. She barely stirs, wakes up long enough to smile aimlessly until she’s sucked back into sleep and her expression drifts again. A smile of his own ghosts his face, and he shuffles himself down into the motel sheets and tries to find some sort of peace of mind for himself, enough that he may rest. It’s five in the morning when his consciousness flutters away with the sound of morning birds.  
  
Sam wakes up standing near the front door covered in sweat with a knife in his hand.  
  
Shivering in the humid air until his teeth chatter, he fills the old stained bathtub with blankets and tells the children to sleep there with the door locked. Just… because.  
  
Just because.

* * *

“This is fucked up, man. Eric was just a kid; this isn’t any way for a hunter to go.” Smoke from a cigarette coils, heavy and thick, from the old man Duvall’s lips - not professional, but that’s Dean’s job, dressed up smoothly in a suit and tie and alias. His head is throbbing and his hands are shaking, and he really could use a fucking drink right about now. Something not only cleared out this morgue, but something took out one of their own - bashed his head against the counter and sucked his brains right out.  
  
Kitsune, probably. Dean’s never been a fan.  
  
“Well, wherever they are, they couldn’t have gotten far; they’ve been leaving a trail for months now” he replies, flipping open his notepad and rubbing his thumb at the fold of his eyelid. Nothing much to go on, other than a truck fleeing the scene, caught by the eye of a construction worker who swings crazy hours and makes long drives out of town; no license plates recollected, but the mirror was busted on the right side. He shrugs a shoulder. “It’ll need to eat again soon. We can look, but…”  
  
“But it’ll probably need to be caught in the act. Right.” A billow of smoke. Duvall continues, tapping his boot on the chipped tile floor, “Slippery bastard, I’ll give it that. We get there a step behind the mess they leave; that, or they snake out of there before we can get the jump on it. I’ll put more boys out at the mortuaries and hospitals, keep an eye on areas where this thing’d feed. It can’t have gone too far, and it’ll get starved out if it doesn’t go in for more.”  
  
Dean nods, heads out from under the line of caution tape. “Careful, man. You cut off too much of its space, it’s gonna start killing off the living instead of recycling the dead.”  
  
“Hn. Sure. Wonder why it does that.”  
  
It bothers him, this familiar method of feeding. Other than Eric - poor kid - there’s nothing here for a kitsune unless the bastard is trying its damnedest to pretend its not a monster. That it can’t help what it is, what it’s gonna always be. That’s the problem with a kitsune; there’s no alternative to the shit it needs to exist in this world. It’s a monster screwed from the get-go. Needs to be put down quick, before it kills again. And it will.  
  
Dean wonders if maybe a certain someone is taking after his family: a particular dark-eyed child who had watched as Dean had smothered his mother’s life. Maybe this was all his work, finally getting sloppy. Maybe this was self-defense, because a hunter went in for the kill. In the end, it doesn’t matter. He told him he’d kill him, too, if he walked his mom’s path. And now, before any other hunters get taken out?  
  
He’s gonna put a silver bullet through this monster’s heart, and then drown the guilt he pretends he doesn’t have in tequila.  
  
It’s not like his better half is here to stop him anymore.

* * *

A few states away, a freshly shaven Sam sits on a park bench and takes comfort in Leia’s healthy color, as she pushes her sister on the swing.  
  
He’s got a gun tucked under his heavy coat and a smile on his face.


	8. Where the Wild Things Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get good. And then complicated. Warnings: suicidal ideation in some spots, mental illness, etc.

Sam wishes he were a normal person.  
  
Normal. He’d wanted that so badly in his youth, always fought against the current of everyone else’s plans. And that’s what he usually was – part of a grand scheme. He fought against his father’s demand for him to follow his footsteps, he fought Azazel’s master plan, he fought Lucifer all the way down into the bottom of an endless well of fire and suffering. He fought against what Dean thought of him – of Dean’s distrust of him. He knows Dean lost faith, and god did Sam want it back. That’s just kind of how he was wired, you know? He wanted people to have the same faith in him that he had in them.  
  
Now none of that really matters.  
  
He remembers Amy Pond’s words, youthful and clear as a new bell: they were freaks.

“All the cool people are freaks,” he says, pulling Lilly’s hair back and combing. She’s got so much hair in this form, thick and unruly and heavy, but she’s really patient with him when he puts it up in a bun. She likes this hair, likes this face a lot. She had decided to use it most of all it seems: a young, sweet-faced child with dark skin and dark eyes, full of innocence and curiosity. Her name – the name of the child who used to own this face – was Kayla. Kayla was a child werewolf, apparently. Lilly talked about her often, when the dead child’s mind fluttered in and out.  
  
Leia sits nearby, watching keenly from her spot atop a park bench. She’s carving their first-letter intials into the wood with one sharp fingernail. They always talk about it, can’t really skirt around it: they’re not normal, they’re from the ring, they’re freakish in the eyes of society. Sam can’t bring himself to tell her it’s gonna all be okay right now. He doesn’t have the energy for that. Maybe later. Maybe when he’s stronger, more confident. Right now, he just adjusts the curly puff of Lilly’s hair and adjusts the hair clips before he stands up and offers the small girl his hand.  
  
She takes it,  
  
Leia smiles a little, faintly. She’s a lot like him lately – her optimism is limited. Maybe it’s because of the bloodbaths.  
  
She replies, “ _You’re_ not very cool, though.”  
  
Sam can’t laugh, but he smiles, and that’s something.  
  
It’s been an entire year since they had almost burned alive in the bed of a diesel truck. It’s been a year since he sweated out the damage from demon blood and took them on the road, desperate and lost. And he still is – god, he still is. He fights them on sleeping in his bed, because he’s terrified of what he’ll do when they’re asleep; if he wakes up covered in their blood, he’ll cut his throat then and there, if he’s honest. He can’t cause their deaths. He couldn’t, not after everything. The night terrors don’t lessen, nor does the sleepwalking, or the sudden disassociation with the world around him. It’s just – some days, it’s hard to remember he’s actually still alive. Existing. They remind him, and he’s grateful.  
  
There’s no healing, but there’s learning how to live with it. They’re figuring it out. Like a puzzle. A wet, crumbly puzzle. Piece by sodden piece, and there are so many missing pieces that he can’t stop to think about it, or he might just freak the fuck out. Dean made up a lot of them. He feels pangs in his heart as typically as an itch, a homesickness years in the making leaving invisible rashes for him to scratch. He wishes he could go back to the bunker. He wishes he could wrap his arms around his brother. He wishes he could look at him and say “I can’t forgive you yet, but can I work on it beside you?”  
  
He practices it, staring at the ceiling at night.  
  
 _I forgive you, I forgive you, I forgive you.  
_  
Maybe if he forgives Dean, the dead will forgive him.  
  
Not God though.  
  
 _Fuck_ God.  
  
At night, Leia and Lilly put it upon themselves to ignore his half-hearted orders to sleep in the tub so that he can’t hurt them, electing to crawl out and into his bed and nestle close, like he’s capable of protecting anything. Lilly’s as frustrating as ever; she wriggles and hooks her legs and drools on his ribs, but when they’re here, it soothes his frantic mind. He doesn’t feel the need to leap up and walk circles around the motel. Sometimes, he sleeps. Restfully, he sleeps.  
  
They travel. They wander far, hop states. Sam tries to use not credit cards but cash, hard cash; if he uses credit cards, he’s afraid Dean will find him, and if he finds him – he doesn’t know. He can never know. He can’t even begin to imagine what would happen, but his dreams do all the work for him. Sometimes he sees his brother on the backs of his eyelids as he slumbers, tension in Dean’s shoulders. Sometimes he dreams that Dean has him by the collar so tightly that it bites into his flesh. And then he pushes his machete against Sam’s neck and never stops, keeps going slowly, slowly. _‘You’re a monster, Sam. You’re a vampire. You’re not my brother anymore. You never were. You did this. You didn’t look for me. You lie, you cheat, you murder. I’m coming for you, Sammy. I’m coming for you.’_ He keeps it up, even as Sam’s head thumps and rolls across the floor, drooling with blood.  
  
Those nights are bad. He knows he scares the girls sometimes, even if they expect it.  
  
But he takes some pride in never drinking. Never, not once. When he looks at the girls and remembers his own father, drunk and distraught on the anniversay of his mother’s death… When he remembers Dad passed out at the table, on top of cold leads to Mom’s murderer… When he remembers Dean, drunk out of his mind, shutdown and unresponsive to Sam’s nudging questions…  
  
He can’t do that. He had to be sharp, but most of all, he couldn’t tell them that was the answer to your nightmares. He just gets up and leaves and screams into his jacket and hopes nobody knows, nobody ever knows.  
  
He stays vigilant. After the death of that younh hunter, he vanishes from the area with the girls in tow. He takes them all the way across the country and lays lower with his eyes peeled for hunters, whether they be vengeful or curious – or in case they’re hunters who know who he is. Being Sam Winchester isn’t a friggin’ picnic, when it comes to monsters. To hunters. To anyone. He nearly gets himself killed by a pack of ghouls once who had crossed paths with him. And another time, a familiar hunter had tried to get a better look at him from across a grocery store. It’s never been more perilous, and all because he almost ended the world once, among other things.  
  
Boy king, for the demons. Lucifer’s vessel, for the angels. The guy who saved the world, the guy who ended the world, the guy who hit a dog, the guy who helped them on a case, who offed the Leviathans, who didn’t close the gates of hell, who wandered without a soul – and demons who remembered.  
  
Remembered him from the bloodbaths.  
  
Oh, he killed them _quick_.  
  


* * *

  
  
“Alright, go ahead and open your eyes,” Sam says, hands in his pockets. His voice is rough but gentle, maybe even happy. Leia and Lilly peel open their eyes cautiously and – are confused, at first, when they stare at the lakeside cabin. Maybe they didn’t quite get it. Maybe they expected something else and assume they’re just staying here for a few days like usual. Sam’s tired, though. He’s tired and he doesn’t want them to end up like him as a kid. Of course… they’re not like him as a kid. They’re even more mature, so much more mature than they should be. Even more messed up.  
  
Lilly looks up at him, her form that of a young hispanic boy today. “What is it?”  
  
He grins with a bit more earnesty. “Our new house.”  
  
“For – a while?” Leia asks.  
  
He nods, crouching down a bit to take their hands. It’s strange, but he’s gotten used to their hands holding his own. It’s natural enough, even if his skin crawls at the thought of anyone else touching him. It’s trust, plain and simple. Part of him hates it, hates how much he’s grown to care. Sometimes he wishes he knew how to stop, but that wouldn’t be fair to them, would it? Wouldn’t be fair at all. He claimed them as his own, even if he’s not their parent, not worth the hassle. He promised them. He promised Leia, before he ever even knew he’d survive that fire, that it’d be okay.  
  
“We might have to leave… There might be a day where we definitely have to leave. And – there will be times where I won’t be here for a little while. Like now, only I’ll be farther away, because I need to get your food, you understand? But this way, you can have rooms, and, uh. You can have toys, and a place to be yours. If you guys don’t like this and you wanna go back on the road, we’ll go. We’ll go in a few days. But, um… Just… see how you feel about it?”  
  
He looks between them, and they nod, and he smiles. He’s tired. He’s really tired, but they’re good kids. Really, they are.  
  
“… Good.” He clears his throat. “Let’s go see it, okay?”  
  
They are surprisingly – or maybe not so surprisingly – a little bit afraid of the prospect. As they walk into the empty, cooled place, Sam wonders if they really will be going back on the road just as quickly. Would be a shame, considering the loopholes he had to jump through to get to this point, and it would be a short-lived disappointment considering all the other disappointments out in the world awaiting them. But the girls – the girl and boy, rather – gain more and more confidence as they roam the two-bedroom home. There’s a kitchen with just a few dishes, and they each have a room set up; Sam himself doesn’t need a room, he’ll sleep on the couch. He’s slept in a car, on a couch, in a cage, for long enough to not care.  
  
Lilly smiles boyishly at the stuffed pony on her bed. Leia looks pleased about the quilt Sam got from a thrift store two states away on the verge of shutting down. He didn’t have much to spare, but he tried… he tried to imagine what he would have wanted, as a child. There’s an incomplete set of LEGOs in a ziplock bag marked 99 cents, and a pretty fairy figurine, and a few books that don’t have shelves.  
  
God, it’s a gamble. It’s a terrible gamble. He shouldn’t be doing this, but they look so happy. They look so fucking happy. They look like normal kids, and fuck, Leia gets sick easily and Lilly barely talks for her age, and Sam gets so afraid at night that he might just stop breathing one day because it’s too much to handle, and god, a hunter’s gonna find them, gonna come for them – for _him_ , because he’s him and that’s how it goes – but they’re. Happy.  
  
It’s been five years since he was kidnapped.  
  
It’s been five years since he’s felt this _calm_.  
  
He curls up with them on a small couch in an empty living room, his gun tucked nearby, and he talks to them about proper home safety. He’s going to teach them how to use a gun properly, too; Leia already knows how to use claws and blades thanks to her time in the ring. Guns are helpful, though. Long-range. He explains how he’s got the area set up – the angel banishing sigils, the devil traps, the alarm system and the hidden basement where they can hide and flee through the latched door he’s covered up with foliage, if all else fails. He wants to leave nothing to chance. Not a single thing, if he can help it. He may be hopeless and unsure where to go from here, but they’ll be damn-well prepared.  
  
When they understand what he says, they read a weathered kid’s book. 

It’s… nice.

* * *

  
Time passes slowly, because it’s just them. 

Months of paranoid complacency at its worst.

Peaceful existence at its best.

That’s all he can ever really hope for.

He expects fighting, expects rebellion. He reads to them often and he is almost entirely sure he’ll have to quell demands – for school, for friends, for things that he can’t give them, that he can’t be substituted for. As it turns out, they don’t bat an eyelash at the thought of the outside world. Lilly’s curious at best, and Leia’s seen enough of the world to not bother. When a child is fragmented by their time as a wild thing in a brightly-lit ring, they simply accept what they can get. It’s both utterly depressing and overwhelmingly relieving all at once.  
  
Sam takes up hunting, but animals. Not monsters. He likes it, likes to exist in a world people rarely touch. He grows some things. Poorly, but he does. He boils water and catches rabbit and chops up brains and makes a stew for a kitsune. It’s almost kind of funny. He apologizes mentally to whoever it belonged to. He hopes they understand, he doesn’t have time to check for the red dot on their driver’s license.  
  
He reads. He goes to the painfully small town hours away and buys all the books they have in the thrift store. He’s a ghost there, visiting so rarely, nobody ever remembers he’s even been there before. 

Before bed, he tries to read at least one story. He remembers Dean doing the same, perhaps not quite so frequently, but as a way to settle him when he was young and particularly jumpy in the dead of night. He curls up with them and flips pages patiently for Leia to help read. Bambi, today. Even though he hunts Bambi, sometimes. Lilly loves Bambi, and they read it tonight.

“Bambi’s mom went to Heaven,” Leia tells Lilly patiently. “It’s okay… I remember… my mom told me about it.” 

It’s the first time Leia’s ever really spoken of her lost family.

She continues, “Someday we all go to Heaven, and we’ll see our family and friends. We shouldn’t try to go, but someday we can.” Leia looks out the cabin’s window, where the forest chirps with life. Her face is relaxed, voice low. “We’ll be happy there. Even if it’s hard here.”  
  
As she watches the rain on the window, Sam stares at her in growing horror.  
  
He can’t bring himself to tell them.  
  
“That’s right,” he says instead, his voice thick. He looks at the scattered LEGOs on the table. “That’s right, it’s real.”  
  
That night, he lays awake on the couch, tears pouring into the shells of his ears.

* * *

Sam fishes. He copes. He kills because he’s hungry, not because he’s broken. He scrubs the wooden floors when Lilly sheds her skin, tantrums when he tells her none of that in the cabin. He’s not sure whether to be happy she’s so comfortable to throw a fit or not, really. Her scream is pretty sharp and high.

Sam also catalogs some gray hairs that appear at random.

It’s time to go out again. Leia can’t starve.  
  
Once he goes over the rules and regulations of staying alone at home a few times with the kistune, he’s confident to leave for the week; that’s the nice thing about having an older kitsune, you know. Lilly doesn’t have a chance to make any mistakes, with her around. She’s got strong senses, always knows when the youngest gets up to pee, always hears the slightest rustle in the house when she’s in alert mode. He trusts her to do her best. It’s all they can really do, other than hope for yet another successful mortuary pit-stop among too many now.  
  
Leia doesn’t mind. She’s old enough to know it’s all for her; he hopes she’s not guilted by it. He ruffles her hair, tries to tell her not to be through that fond touch, and leaves in the new stolen car. 

* * *

But here’s what happens.  
  
Here’s where his stomach drops.  
  
He’s caught in the act again, caught in a morgue in the wee hours of the night, and this person, they get the drop on him. She gets the drop on him. The gun clicks, and she’s got a sure aim as he spins around, but even in the dimness of the room – he knows.   
  
“Sam?” Charlie questions, breathless with awe, her gun drooping in her hands. “Is that you?”

They stand silent among the sterilized equipment.

His heart lurches.  
  
“… Sam?” she asks, again.  
  
His stomach churns.  
  
Mouth is dry.  
  
Palms sweating.  
  
The corpse on the slab is untouched. Charlie’s gun is gone now as she lowers it, her hair is shorter than he remembers, her eyes bright with mixed feelings; she’s hunting freely, she’s back from another world, and he – ** _can’t_** – do this –  
  
“Holy _crap_ , Sam, _it’s you_." 


	9. When the Wild Things Age

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things may be falling apart, but Sam finds some inch of peace.
> 
> Dean on the other hand — not so much.

It's been months since the death of that hunter kid, and Dean had lost the trail. Which is friggin' annoying as hell, and it all just seems too _clean;_ how is this kitsune keeping ahead of him so easily? Sam had tracked Amy well enough, just has they had many of the same breed of being in the past. This one, though. This one seems to be predicting just where, how, and _when_ Dean would be following the scent. The trail's cold. It's as cold as beach water in December. As cold as the goddamn glaciers spinning at the top of the globe. It seems like whoever the hell it is, they keep getting juuust enough glands and preserving them in mathematically precise measurements. By the time they're needing more, they're all the way on the other side of the country to clean house. Morgue house.

  
It just makes him more and more eager to catch the next break. He's got all hunters passing his many cell numbers around on it. Hell, they can at least throw him a dial if they actually kill the bastard (even if he has _questions_ , even if he isn't sure on this one, isn't sure why it's trying to pretend it can be a pacifist when one hunter is _dead, but jesus, was it self-defense, he doesn't know_ ). What compels this asshole to try and be civil? Dean's trying his damnedest not to let morality — Sam's _memory_ — get to him, because he can imagine his brother looking discouraged and disappointed, staring at him from over the top of Dean's many beer cans. He's drunk as hell tonight, living in the past and in regrets.  
  
Five years. _Five years._ Five years of Sam being gone, of him being shoved apparently into a monster ring that nobody had fucking cracked in all that time. He was in that truck. Burnt into nothing. Attempts to forcefully summon Crowley for negotiations at gunpoint has been met with squat, and Dean's hands shake and shake at the thought of Sam possibly being trapped down there deep in the foul stenches of brimstone. Castiel always tells him, _always_ — It's _okay_ , if he's there he'll raise him back, he'll get Sam back, he'll figure it out. But Cas can't just fly into Hell anymore. And there are very few angels worth their feathers who'd be willing to help a Winchester either. Dean entertains the idea of making deals anyway. Of course he does. But the idea of going demonic is a little horrifying, and Sam's gone because of his fucking stupid choices. Gone. God knows where.  
  
He finishes off his last can, and he knows his head is gonna be killing him in the morning. The bunker's so _quiet_.  
  
"Do you really think this is what Sam would want?" Castiel asks, creeping up as usual. Bastard. Dean looks over his shoulder with a glower, feeling that unfair sensation of blame curdling like milk in his stomach. It's easy to blame others, easy to point a finger at Cas and demand him to try harder, to tell him that he's failing at every turn. The truth is, every time he does, he's really just trying to make himself feel less like shit. He'd know, he's done it to Sam before. It's easy, and he pretends it hurts less. Lately, he's found that once the drunken stupor fades, he's just an idiot-asshole. He's fallen low. Life's hard, _boo hoo_. You lose.  
  
"Shut up, Cas, it's Saturday night and I'm in love with this brand."  
  
"Every night seems to be Saturday night," he says and then plucks up the bottle from Dean's uncoordinated fingertips.  
  
Dean snaps up like a jackknife. Oh, he friggin' hopes Cas is setting him up for a fistfight. Sure, he'd 100% lose. It's not like Dean has to worry about the Mark of Cain anymore, right? It's back in Cain's possession, and that son-of-a-bitch is somewhere nobody can ever reach him; Castiel's word. Castiel's stupid word, out of his stupid mouth. He wants his bottle back, even though he was just about done anyway. Despite the fact that the _floor_ could beat him in a brawl.  
  
"Put it down," Dean growls. "What're you, my mom?"  
  
"Hardly," Castiel says nonchalantly, reading the back of the bottle for contents. "Do you really think I'm going to let you ruin your liver after I brought it back from Hell in peak condition? I've already had to cure you of alcohol poisoning twice since Metatron died." Dean grits his teeth and swipes for the bottle, and Cas shoves him with that angelic strength back _down_ into the chair, unimpressed. Dean hates being treated like some dog jumping on the dinner table. He goes in swinging, itching for a fight, but Castiel just as easily trips the drunk man straight into a desk lined with books. Dean's stomach hits the edge and he _oofs_.  
  
"Goddammit, Cas, I don't need you to look out for me!"  
  
"It's what Sam would have wanted," Cas says solemnly. It takes a lot of the wind from Dean's sails. Punches holes in it really. He wilts, rubs a hand over his face.  
  
"... I just..." he murmurs, voice crackling weakly, "I just want to know. I just want to know where he is."  
  
Castiel walks to one of the decrepit sinks, gasmasks lining the wall beside it. He pours the drink down the drain.  
  
"I know."  
  
Dean's phone rings. He lazily digs for it in his pocket, denim rough against his hand, and when he eyes the screen tiredly, he sees that it's Charlie.  
  
He answers, and her voice sobers him, just a little.  
  
"Dean, I saw him," is all she says. It's enough.  
  
And it sobers him a _lot_.  
  


* * *

  
  
Here's how things went wrong.  
  
Charlie found him.  
  
Sam stares back at her for what feels like forever, and he knows what _forever_ feels like; he's been in Lucifer's Cage. She's looking at him like he's a ghost, and now that he has the wit to think about it, she probably really did think that she was staring at a ghost. A strange, thinner, paler ghost of her former friend. He swallows hard and tries to feel some modicum of happiness at seeing her. He's too anxious to be disappointed that he doesn't find any at all — frantic on the inside, like he may just crumple into a paper-like ball right in front of her. Her bright eyes are glistening with newfound discovery, like she's gone and found a long lost relative, and she moves forward and throws her arms around his shoulders with a shocked sob.  
  
"We thought you were _dead_ , Sam, we thought — "  
  
 _Messy, Charlie_. He'd be thinking how messy it is, for her to trust in his appearance like this. She doesn't know what potential dangers wait, and that's even considering he may not be himself at all. Instead of being able to focus on that thought, he panics instantly. He can't do this, he can't face his past or let them face him back. They just don't understand what he is now. He shoves Charlie backward, and she scrambles to stay upright as goes near-toppling; she catches the table nearby with a nimble hand and stabilizes, but her stare has gone from pure relief and bliss to startled confusion. And, Sam thinks miserably, _concern_.  
  
"... Dude, what the heck? It's _me_."  
  
He swallows hard, the knot hardly unraveling in his throat, and puts his hand up. Bidding her to keep her distance.  
  
"I'm — sorry, I'm sorry, Charlie. I have a hard time with... that, right now," he says slowly. Everything's fuzzy around the edges, pulsing. He feels like he's having a heart attack. Some twisted corner of his mind says how much easier it could have been, if he entertained the idea of killing her quickly. It horrifies him, makes him queasy. What does he do? What can he do? Other than stand here and look like he's on the verge of running, not much.  
  
She straightens up as the lightbulb in her head blinks to life. _Ah_. Her expression softens and she steps backward one more step. As if that little fraction of distance will sooth Sam's flayed nerves. He appreciates her concerns, and his lips twitch in an attempt to smile sympathetically, though it's too mechanical and he's too close to some invisible ledge. He's glad she can't understand why he's like this; if the monster ring — the bloodbaths — had captured her, what would she have turned into? He thanks whatever there is left looking after them, that he was isolated in this. Well... from the people most dear in his life. Sam tucks his bangs back behind his ear, shorter than Charlie likely remembers. It's been so long. What the hell is she even doing out here? He realizes she must have gotten back to hunting after her stay in Oz.  
  
Oz. Oz, where there's Glenda, Glenda the shapeshifter crumpled in a pile with his face, Glenda who just wanted to go home. No place like home, the place Sam avoids like the plague. Or does he have one? He has a little shapeshifter at _home_ waiting for him, playing with cheap toys and eating television dinners Leia makes with upmost care; just like Dean and Sam, waiting for dad to come home. He has to go _home_ , shouldn't leave them long. He has no choice. He doesn't do it to hunt. He does it for food. He does it to keep her alive. And now, this? This mess?  
  
God, everything is ruined. He almost wants to cry.  
  
"No... _I'm_ sorry, I didn't think. I." She clears her throat. "Dean's been wondering — god, what are you even doing here? Are you working _cases_ right now? We thought you were super dead, but you're just in... a dumpy city, cleaning up shop on jobs? After what happened — "  
  
"Seemed like the thing to do," he manages, throat constricted. A whisper, a sandpapered attempt to be blasé. It only serves to fire up her confounded lecturing. It's easier than Dean's by far, more utter confusion than finger-pointing, and yet it still gives his heart the same vice-like effect.  
  
"We thought you were dead! You should have told us! After we learned about the monster fighting, I scoured all over for spell books for Dean, and Castiel was looking for you, and — and... Oh, god. It's been years. I gotta tell Dean, Sam. He's _got_ to know you're okay!" It's enough to make the hairs on his neck stand straight up. He steps forward and makes fists at his sides, his mind flashing back to his dreams, his nightmares: hunters ripping Leia and Lilly into pieces; Leia starving without him; Dean, plunging the demon-killing knife into his lung, filling it with blood. He feels like there's already something sharp there in his chest, twisting and twisting. He's bound to burst, breathless, but he has to stay calm. He has to not blank out, has to try to keep this all okay.  
  
"No, _please_ ," he pleads. He's desperate, and she's looking at him like he's gone crazy. And he has. He knows it. "Please, Dean can't know that I'm out here. Please. Charlie, I can't — it's so complicated, and I swear, I'll tell him someday. I swear." Lie, lie, lie. "I just can't do that right now, you understand? You get me? He won't understand; he'll hu — He just can't. Please, please promise me. _Please_. I need some time alone. After what happened, I need some time."  
  
Charlie just stares. She's afraid. That's good, isn't it? Why is she looking at him like that?  
  
"I'm not gonna — hurt you," Sam manages.  
  
She blinks and snaps out of it. "... I know, Sam. I know."  
  
He wrings his hands together, glancing away. "Um... This was... probably ghouls. I followed the trail, but it's cold."  
  
"Do you want — " Charlie starts, "Sam, come with me? You can stay at my hotel. We can look into other leads, if you want..."  
  
He sees what she's trying, so he does smile. It's the worst smile. He must look batshit crazy, right now. "Sorry. I gotta go."  
  
"... If you're in trouble, Sam... You've got us to help you. We can _help you_..."  
  
He backs away, and to her credit, she doesn't move. She just looks at him with those sad, sad eyes, nowhere near as hurt and dazed but all too lost. He slinks into the shadow and shakes his head sadly. And whatever she thinks, whatever she wants, whatever she sees, she doesn't follow. She doesn't do anything. Not until she drives back to her motel and stares at the phone for a good hour, chilled to the bone and unsettled. Sam starts his drive back home. It takes days, even longer when he makes sure nobody has even the slightest chance of following him, but he gets home.  
  
He grabs his girls and holds them close at the front door.  
  


* * *

  
  
Dean's mind is tailspinning into reckless abandonment the moment Charlie tells him what had happened. For one thing, he has to try to comprehend the fact that Sam's alive and just... fucking around somewhere in the western side of the United States. For another, he can't stop thinking his brother's name on repeat, like it's something a delinquent writes on a whiteboard, only he feels like he's written it pretty much all his life. It's instinctive, for all his faults, and god knows he's made mistakes with Sam. But every molecule in his body is pushing him to get in his car and peel out, to not stop until he's in that rickety-ass town Charlie spoke of, and to scour every single inch of its terrain until he sees his brother.  
  
What will he say? What _can_ he even say? _Sorry_? He can hardly be angry about this avoidance shit. Dean did his time in Purgatory, but he can hardly grasp what it was like for Sam in the fighting ring; it's not the same, even if there are a few likeminded dances. He's only gotten short glimpses of that world since hunters had taken those places apart, dismantled them and burned bodies... monster and hunter corpses alike. Why wouldn't Sam come back to him, though, after that kinda' hell? He comes to the conclusion when he recollects their final moments together. Ah, yes. Because it was his fucking fault Sam was even there to begin with. He knocked his brother unconscious and left him in a fucking road. Defenseless. Unaware of danger. He slipped the metaphorical roofie. On more than one fucking occasion. Sam trusted him before Gadreel. And Sam trusted Dean before Metatron, and he suckerpunched him.  
  
Seems like it's been a hobby of his. _Suckerpunching_.  
  
Lord knows he's got a laundry list.  
  
First thing's first — he throws up in the toilet.  
  
And then, feeling so much more sober, he packs up the car with his and Sam's duffel and takes Cas with. There are people he needs to call. There are things he needs to get straight, concerns he needs to voice. Word for word, Charlie's conversation is like daggers between his ribs. "I don't know," she'd said, and he remembers as he drives with a silent but no doubt thoughtful Castiel in Sam's seat. "I don't know, Dean, something was wrong. He just... He wasn't himself. He didn't want me anywhere near him, and — I mean, with what he's probably seen, what he dealt with, I get that. He just seemed like he had a lot he didn't want to talk about. He was hiding something. Maybe he's _still_ in trouble..."  
  
Sam, in trouble. And Dean, powerless to help. Not this time. Getting down to the bottom of this and getting his brother back, that's the goal.  
  
If Sam even _wants_ him back.  
  
Because it sounds a hell of a lot like he doesn't.  
  
"If he's really okay," Dean says — to Castiel, and to the road — "If he's _okay_ and he hates me, it's... okay. As long as he's okay."  
  
"I don't think it's possible for Sam to hate you," Cas says, not to the road, but straight at Dean.  
  
Dean always had a love-hate relationship with his friend's forwardness.  
  
He piles on the mph and hopes highway patrol are on donut break.  
  
Please, _please_. Just one good thing.  
  
He takes his phone and makes a call.  
  
"... Hey, Garth? I know you're out, but I need you to collect some stuff for me... It's for Sam."  
  
 _Sam_.  
  


* * *

  
  
Sam had made it a point to hole up in the cabin and not leave for anything. After seeing Charlie again, he couldn't be sure who to trust — couldn't be sure he could trust her, no matter how noble her intentions would be. In a way, he spends the next few weeks dreading a knock at the door, even despite the fact that he had covered his tracks with utmost care after the surprise meeting. He even swapped his vehicle out. Again. His paranoia leaves him awake at night, though he surrenders to a few hours of rest when he realizes the girls are mimicking his habits.  
  
He doesn't mean to scare them, but fear is a very important and and real survival mechanism, right now.  
  
Time heals none of his anxiety, but it does leave him with room to think. He doesn't dream of leaving the property, not until the rations are used up and he has no choice but to venture out into that unpredictable world beyond him. That world that is, in its own way, like a fighting ring all its own. It's a ring, and this little cabin, this little house, is the cage that he finds solace in. That they all find solace in. He checks the generic calendar in the kitchen that Lilly picked from the dollar store — some kid's show that left an impression, he supposes — and marks the days down. In the backyard, he collects more wood to take his time. And as an excuse to survey the land for safety a few more times. He even wonders if he's at all capable of building a treehouse. Would they even want a treehouse? He feels qualified enough to almost break his neck trying.  
  
One particular morning, he _finally_ settles down long enough to wander back inside and collect Leia from the small living room; she and Lilly ( _Caleb_ ), they're watching an old copy of the Transformers cartoon. It's kind of weird to watch them sometimes, because there's a sense of peace. They're so utterly enthralled by the moving pictures on the screen, you'd think they never had to make the worst choices in life.  
  
"Hey," Sam says quietly. He leads Leia into the kitchen and hesitantly slides open the furthest drawer, where there's a package wrapped up in a nice and neat beige paper and carefully tied twine. It's just some wrap you'd find from a post office, really, nothing fancy, but he figures that Leia wouldn't care about the presentation as much as _he_ clearly did (such carefully folded and taped corners). He offers it to her regardless, a sheepishness replacing some of the heavily guarded tension he'd been feeding into the household for the last few weeks. "You, um. You remember? You told me it was July 17th. Your birthday. It's nothing special, but I saved it so I definitely had something in case things got busy..."  
  
Or dangerous. Or too paranoid.  
  
They sure did, too.  
  
She doesn't seem to know what to do with it, at first. She studies it like there's a Waldo Where'ing around on it. She scrapes at the packaging with a nail, then cuts with more confidence, tearing along the side with a claw that needs a trimming. Her face is the softest he's ever seen it, save for maybe the moment she'd informed Lilly about Heaven and what is(n't) waiting for them. For _some_ reason, Sam feels really damned embarassed right now. He wasn't that great at theater; he had a hard time filling his roles. But Leia just runs her hand reverently along the flower pattern on the revealed jewelry box. It's nothing special, Sam thinks. From the way she smiles, though, maybe it is. He hopes it is.  
  
"If, um. If you open it, it plays a tune. It's got one of the little ballerinas in there and everything."  
  
He gives a lopsided little smile, feeling kind of lame.  
  
"Sorry, it's not a party, but I could make... Er, try to make something sweet..."  
  
She steps forward and hugs him tightly. Her hands collect the tails of his flannel in balled fists. A language of its own.  
  
"Thank you," says the girl, her voice low and content, and Sam feels stronger than he has in a long time. Like... maybe he can do something worthwhile, in the end, even with their futures sitting precariously on a window's ledge. And for some reason, for some fucked-up reason he can't _comprehend_ , when she says — again, more firmly — " _Thank_ you, dad," he can't even find it in his heart to correct her. Maybe he doesn't want to, even if he knows he should. He leans his chin into the crown of her head and plays along, his reply sure and strong for the first time in a long time.  
  
"No, thank _you_ , sweetheart."  
  
 _Aw, fuck,_ he thinks. _Aw, fuck,_ he loves them. It could all be over any day now, but he loves them.  
  
It makes everything else a little more survivable.  
  


* * *

  
  
Many, many, many miles away, Dean and Cas learn about shifter skins found in a cheap diner restaurant, though it was a ways back. It's in a neat-n-tidy hunter's casefile, long since left untouched thanks to a lack of _homicide_ , because actual murders are kind of a priority over gross skin-shedding. _Shifter never caught,_ so says Garth the werewolf. But Dean _finally_ sees a pattern — _there's a trail._ There's a trail, and he grins for all of a day before more of the grim details click together. Castiel takes his own car and starts a pilgrimage around the radius Charlie had encountered his brother. Dean sits in a motel room he bought for a week, cash up front, hands shaking but mind _abundantly_ clear. He's never had so much purpose in the last few years. He's never been so close.  
  
A precarious balance, Dean's happiness. A short-lived beast.  
  
It's easy to follow Sam on a map once he knows it's _Sam_ , because he _knows_ Sam. This is the same guy who spoke in unison him effortlessly like some weird, small hivemind. Same guy who cracks the same stupid lines in a police interrogation area. Same guy who just _knows_ Dean, knows his moods and patterns, knows everything about what food he likes, his clothing sizes, his favorite brands, his fears and weaknesses. It's easy. It's so fucking easy. He connects Sam to an old truck after a sleepless night intercepting old survaillence footage from public streets. The vehicle was sold cheap to a farming couple, its only issue a broken mirror and worn brakes.  
  
... Same truck found at the death of a young hunter who had his head cut open and his brains scavenged through.  
  
Dean remembers being there.  
  
He feels hot and cold all over. Video footage follows the truck. Days pass in realtime. He buys the motel room out for _another_ week. _Two_ weeks. Sam's good, but Dean knows him. Dean knew him. Garth gets him records. He pours through them, drinks them down like a bottle of priceless wine. Sam's angular and downcast face appears briefly in a convenience store feed; it's clear Sam's trying to avoid looking into it so he's not easily identified, but it's _Sam_. Dean stares at the short section of video for what feels like hours. The bastard's lost even more weight than Dean remembers. His hair is shorter. The feed is too blurry, though. He can hardly see his face; piece-of- _shit_ feed, he can barely see his brother's face.  
  
"Sammy, what the fuck," he whispers, rubbing his eyes.  
  
Why was Sam at the scene of a hunter's murder, the night he was killed?  
  
Two children appear briefly in the same tape, in the same feed. The older one, blonde, is only the back of a head; she never turns. Sam crouches down, though, and picks up the youngest child (god, probably barely out of diapers? What the _fuck_ , Sam? What the fuck?), as he pays for gas. Sam barely seems to look at the cashier at the counter, like he's got to hold an umbrella over his sins that block out the suspicious looks. Yeah, Sam's not giving the cameras any mind, but _the little girl is_. She sucks her fingers, or picks her nose, fuck if he can tell from this quality. She looks up at the camera. Or maybe at the mirror in the corner of the store; one of those round, weird mirrors you can see your reflection in.  
  
Dean holds his breath and watches as her eyes flash a telling flash. Bright, _shapeshifter_ eyes.  
  
Things fall into place.  
  
Doubt clouds Dean's vision and starts to spoil his answered prayers.  
  
"Cas," Dean says numbly into his cell, the angel two states away behind the speaker of a phone. His voice drips with a threat. "It might not be Sam."  
  
Because it's possible Sam never left the bloodbaths alive.  
  
Oh, it's possible.  
  
Charlie never tested him. Charlie never _tested_ him.  
  
All this time, and his brother may very well be a monster in sheep's clothing.  
  
The thought almost breaks his phone against a wall.  
  
It has to be Sam.  
  
Isn't it?  
  
 _Isn't it?_


	10. Where the Wild Things Hide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And straight ahead, the child reaches out to the heavens, the same time as always.

_'Let the bloodbaths begin!'_  
  
Sam wakes up standing on his feet. Swaying, the old midnight air scrapes an icy hand across his skin, which has cooled with chilly sweat. He looks down at his bare, battle-marked arms, blinking, incoherent as he tries to put pieces together: they're familiar, they're his, he's standing out in front of the cabin. He traces the edges of each scar against pale skin and releases a gasping breath he didn't realize he'd been drowning in. One hand is clasping a gun with trembling fingers. He peels his index finger away from the trigger and looks around; there's no bodies, no blood, nothing but him and the beginnings of a sprinkle of rain.  
  
Leia is rushing out after him, a long heavy towel in her hands, and quickly wraps her father in it. With the other hand, she carefully takes the gun.  
  
"It's okay," she says calmly, in that almost detached but no less sincere way, squeezing his now empty hand. "It's okay, it's just a bad dream."  
  
Sam feels like he can't speak, he can't say _anything_. Everything feels like a dream, so unreal that it's put his voice away behind lock and key. Instead of giving him time to cope in the now pouring rain, she pulls at his hand and leads him back in. She says, over and over: _It's okay. It's okay. You're okay, you're okay._ And he sort of believes it, for the moment. She sits him down on the couch where his blankets had been discarded in his twisting and turning, rubbing his hands back to warmth with the towel before she dries the limp locks on his head. "You'll get sick. You're not like me; you can't handle the weather."  
  
Carefully, she tucks him back into bed. He finally looks at her. A little frustrated.  
  
"I'm sorry. I wish I could be better," he says. "I want better. I just want to be better for you guys."  
  
"We're monsters. You don't have to be better for us."  
  
He shakes his his solemnly, more focused now. Leia looks at him, expression shielded, quiet.  
  
"You're just fine, dad... Please keep trying."  
  
His eyelids feel heavy. He hasn't slept much tonight, his body running on the fumes of silent fear, helplessness. He knows that things are getting more dangerous — somewhere along the line, he messed up, and it's going to cause them all pain. It's gonna take something away from the girls, something they only just got to have, and it's gonna be his own fault. For not providing it right. For making some fatal error. The thought leaves him feeling hopeless sometimes, before he can pick himself up and drag himself onward. He has to keep trying, he always has to keep trying. Not just for penance, but for them. He just has to keep going. Was stopping and turning into worm food ever an opinion, really?  
  
He fades. In and out, he fades. He wonders the state of his soul. It's been cut and torn, pulled like dough, pin-balled around heaven, hell, and things between. It's been lost at sea, it's been held captive by angels. Now, he wonders if maybe something had been a last straw. Will he ever be himself again? Probably not.  
  
"I like who you are now," Leia says (how long has she been there?), smoothing his hair back before leaving to her room again.  
  
She locks her door, something Sam had requested of them a while ago, but she doesn't seem very concerned.  
  
Sam closes his eyes, and dreams. But the night-walks for the week are over.

 

* * *

  
  
Days pass as they hide away.  
  
Sam switches between the radio news and the police scanners frequently, looking for anything suspicious in the area. It pays to know what's going on around you, even if you're not hunting anymore; he's got to say, he's surprised he didn't invest in one sooner. As much as he still flinches at the sounds of a likely case, he also knows that's not in his hands anymore. The kids are, though, and the longevity of their lives. He tries not to let it all consume him, because he knows how it feels to have a father consumed by his work. Sam remembers wanting to do so much — _so much_ — and remembers waking up in the morning consumed with panic over a father that had hurt himself badly on a hunt; badly enough that he hobbled when he walked. That's not something a kid should have to worry about. That was hard. Hard on Dean, hard on him. He used to give his brother these Looks, like _when will it be over?_ _When will I know what dad is like before the anger and revenge and stubborn absence?_ And Dean would look at him, quietly icing his father's back, and say with his eyes: _I just don't know, Sammy._  
  
He loved his dad, and his dad loved him, but there was always a void. Maybe for both of them.  
  
He didn't want Lilly to feel like a black sheep, just because he and Leia were like-minded. Different.  
  
Lilly wants to bake today. It's always something with her, where Leia is almost always content with being complacent, being quiet. It's not quite how Dean and he were as kids, but there are similarities that are easy enough to see. Lilly thrives in ways he worried she wouldn't; she's always so quiet, was just as isolated as Leia was, but she's young. She's malleable. Lately she's taken on habits like jumping on the couch when she's excited, even if her expression isn't quite a match to her enthusiasm. She runs sometimes to let out energy. She even plays out daydreams, on occasion, with her toys. He marvels at the concept, to be so youthful that you can just... cope. He thinks Leia envies that, herself.  
  
He offers Leia to join, but she just shakes her head and takes to writing; it's a wonder she can remember how to.  
  
"In the TV, they use flour," Lilly says around her fingers, curious eyes scanning the roll of cookie dough Sam has retrieved from their fridge drawer. _Can't get nothing past her._ He smiles apologetically, cutting open the packaging with scissors.  
  
"That's for people who are way cooler than me" he admits. "I'm not a very good chef."  
  
"Chef," Lilly says thoughtfully.  
  
"Yeah, chef. A cook. Can you roll these into balls? Like this?"  
  
"Mhmm..."  
  
He observes quietly as she pats the dough down, rolls it and replicates his with careful motions — his own immaculately rolled, because even after everything, he just can't help but maintain a little bit of orderliness. He likes her lumpy, crooked cookie roll better anyway. With a little dimpled quirk of his lips, he moves on to the next one to place on the pan (old scrapped thing that came with the place, just one, they don't more than that). It's quiet and peaceful, and even if his stomach hurts sometimes at the _calmness_ that sometimes settles over them, he likes it. For a brief moment in time, his vast worries ebb away. Just... for that fleeting moment.  
  
"Careful, don't slip," he says, bracing the back of the chair she's in with one hand. "Wouldn't want to break your arm. I've fallen and did that before."  
  
She looks up, eyes wide and curious; her gaze travels to his bare forearm, covered in pale scars from claws, from blades. "You? You're big."  
  
The earnestness makes him laugh a quiet laugh. "When I was your age. I wasn't very strong, and sometimes I made, um, silly mistakes. My brother, he — " He stops, staring at the oven top, and though he doesn't look away from it, he can feel Leia's respectful but curious gaze from afar. He didn't bring up his family with them, not particularly. He never brought up Dean, though he wonders if maybe they inferred from his less coherent nights asleep. They're smart kids, after all. Smart as he was growing up, and he inferred _plenty_. He breathes out and continues, more warmly, "My brother and I, we were playing tag — my dad, he was out at the time, and we needed something to take up the time, so we played tag, and then superheroes. I played batman."  
  
He smiles at Lilly. "I didn't want to disappoint my brother, I can remember. I wanted to be as strong as him, wanted to be by his side. As cool of a superhero as him. So when he jumped off the shed, I wanted to believe I'd be okay if I jumped, too. Because it's better than being up there all alone. But I just kinda... fell hard." He always seems to just fall hard when it came to following his brother, try as he might. Without Dean, the ground always seemed fast approaching, and every time, it felt like waking up with a busted arm on dead grass. "Dean freaked. He saw my arm looking all weird and not... y'know, like a normal arm, and he just _freaked_. I remember screaming my head off all the way down the street, and Dean looked like he had practically committed a murder, he was so panicked."  
  
He grabs a towel, moves to slip the finished lumps of cookie into the middle rack. The heat rushes at him, washes over him, and Lucifer tickles his throat with razors. It's become such a commonplace sensation, memories from the past. He doesn't even bat an eye anymore. Just closes the oven door and slaps his hands together. When he looks back up to Leia, she's placed her notebook in her lap and is looking at him with surprising intensity.  
  
"He should've been more careful," she says. "He shouldn't have taken you up there if you were too small to jump."  
  
A wince, because — well, Leia's still young, still wouldn't understand that kids couldn't really be held accountable. Not her, not Lilly. Not for that kind of thing. Though Leia's so much like Dean in his youth, before the girls and the sneaking out and the more, uh, criminal activities, that he's not surprised she's hard on him. Dean was hard on himself as a kid, too, when he wasn't stressed out over something. That's just kind of how they existed. Dad stressed, Dean stressed, and Sam quietly stressed about them stressing. Ha.  
  
Eventually, Sam can only shake his head with a thin-lipped smile.  
  
"Dean was just a kid... He didn't realize that I could get hurt in the end. He didn't realize that some things have bad consequences."  
  
Lilly stands on her toes, and Sam quickly grabs the chair again to keep it steady, even if it's stable. "The doctor's took care of you?"  
  
"Hmm, that's right. I got a cast put on." It was a close call with the child protective services, too. Dean was good at covering for Dad, and Sam was good at going along with Dean. In the end, they had to blaze a fast trail out of there anyway; never gave real last names, because they were trained to be better than that. Stranger danger, dad would say. Only everyone is a stranger, everyone is someone to be cautious around. Sam was terrible at that rule. He just wanted everyone to like him. Or love him. It felt nice, to be loved.  
  
Lilly gives him a dimpled smile, olive-skinned face glowing under the kitchen light.  
  
"You and Leia! You're the only ones."  
  
"The only ones?" he asks softly, sharing a curious glance with the kitsune across the room. Lilly hums watching through the greasy little oven window.  
  
"You're the only ones who ever tooked care of me."  
  
The dough flattens, rises.  
  
They all three sit and watch together to the sound of radio commercials. Sam figures they should pick a birthday for Lilly, too.

 

* * *

 

  
_You just want to follow his lead. You sweep your cape up in your hands, feel the strange feeling of invulnerability, and think that maybe — if you're not worthy of being a knight — you may just be worthy enough of being a superhero. Dean leaps and he looks like he always does, all strong and capable and skilled in the eyes of everyone else. He's a perfect superman, because he's super-everything. Even if he takes the remote a lot, even if he yells at you sometimes when he gets mad, he's super. He protects, he defends, he can fight. You know he can use guns, because they leave guns everywhere, and you're never allowed to touch them._  
  
_You back up and run, and Dean maybe says something against it, to try and say "no way Sammy", but you're jumping, you're flying, and for a moment you feel as strong as Dad probably is. You could glide your bat wings all over Gotham and stop moms from getting into car accidents, with your utility belt._  
  
_But then the sun flip-flops and you're all thrashing arms and legs as you fall, fall, fall. You should have known you didn't have what it takes. You're really small and not so good at things, and even when you watch people all day like they're TV's, you still can't be like your Dad and Dean. You can't be a superman. You hit the ground hard and think that maybe Dean's the only one who can be that kind of person._  
  
_And then comes the pain._

 

* * *

 

Dean is the biggest champion of denial that probably ever existed.He won the goddamn _trophy_.

 

  
So the thought of Sam not being Sam? Sure, it had the potential of being too real; it was a feeling that wrecked his insides, but he didn't _believe_ it. Not yet. Not without more. He makes a hell of a lot of calls, some from nearly lost cell numbers of his father, mostly written sloppily in the journal, and most _out of service_ (hunters are fucking trouble to get direct hold of, of course). He gets a knock at the door at 2 in the morning after a week of dead ends from Sherri Berry, who would just as soon punch you in the face than ever let you utter her full name. Not quite an _old_ hunter, not quite new. Dean figures she'd be someone he would have had a keen interest in if she were a decade older. She brings with her a minor calvary; new guy named Dennis and a few of his boys lodging nearby, who had a great record of kills and an even greater record of being somewhat decent of a teammate. He's hunted with him plenty of times, and the guy saved his ass against a siren that got the better of him — and we all know how sirens can be. It wasn't a pretty tag-team victory by far, but Dean's ass would be grass without his back-up. He's good. Solid. Been around the block as much as anyone needs, to know the shit hunting puts you through.

Dennis had been close to the kitsune case; had slaved over it, really. He knew Eric a little, just enough of a bleeding heart to want some brand of justice, and even with all of Dean's sneakiness, he couldn't exactly stop the game of telephone from cycling back. He was in, wanted in, wanted to help Dean any way he could. It was a fine line for Dean to toe, because if the choice came between this guy and Sam, he'd pick Sam no contest. Nobody's jumping any guns until he's got some final word, or so fucking help him, he'll put a bullet in their legs.

But this is the next generation, he supposes. Better get on their good side.

Especially Sherri's. See, she has a bit of a skill set he sure could use right about now: she's a photographer, a strange collaboration of hunter and news anchor, as far as he's concerned. She keeps the details of cold cases and historical documents regarding old cases; real fancy gal, maybe likened to a traveling Bobby, would be great to co-inherit the bunker if it ever came to that. Lord knows Dean's got no love for the place anymore, after the horrible loneliness that came with it all these years. A woman of letters, here. She's usually excited to offer him something, but today's a solemn one. Because she has the very thing he was unconsciously hoping she didn't — pictures of corpse dumping sites. He'd checked out the freshest back in the day, but the idea of looking at the bodies _before_ that, years prior to the collapse of the bloodbath rings? Hadn't crossed his mind until...

Until his brother might not have been his brother.

Turns out, Sherri had a pretty front row seat to that mayhem.

She and Dennis stand back, give him space. The bloodbath dump sites were a thing of terror. Mostly just a dozen bodies ditched somewhere inconspicuous, somewhere far from the actual ring. He leafs through them all with so much intensity, nobody knows where to start with him. Sherri says, filling the tension in the air with dialogue: "This stack here was before hunters started showin' up in the graveyards. If people just assumed your brother was another one of the monsters involved, they mighta' overlooked... something, burned him when they couldn't match him with anyone. Or hunters possessed by demons coulda' destroyed any chance of you findin' out. They were pretty good at coverin' their tracks, after all."

This discovery was _years_ before now. _Years_. He never thought he'd revisit it like this. If Sam's really gone, then... what, some shifter decided to use his face? For what? Why the fuck would you pick a hunter like Sam Winchester to mimic...? He hates every word out of her mouth as she rambles about each set, but instead of being an asshole, he says numbly, "Good thing you do these kinds of things. For victims. Hunters."

  
She watches then solemnly, freckled arms crossed. "My daddy was a photographer before a wendigo got 'im back in '07. He was real good."

"So you think-- " Dennis breaks the silence. He clears his throat, sheepish almost despite his muscle-headed demeanor. He and Sherri keep passing these worried glances, like he doesn't know they're Concerned or whatever. He doesn't care, sorry to say. "I mean, hell Dean, are you saying this guy on the footage -- the guy who looks like your brother might be a shifter? You really think so?"

"I don't think anything." Yet. 100% for sure. "I just need to get more pieces of the puzzle."

"... And if it ain't your brother, it's probably the bastard that did in Eric," Dennis replies.

"Shut up and let me focus," Dean says sharply, and Dennis puts up his heavy hands in surrender. He knows when to give the functional alcoholic a little room, especially where the topic of Sam is concerned. Dean taps his finger on a picture in particular, a cold sweat breaking out over him, something not sitting quite right. "Do you have more from this area? From this dump site. I need closer shots."

Sherri brings in more from the van. The closer shots give him just enough to throw his denial into a tailspin. He studies the polaroids with a sense of gnarling, building hysteria. There, in the twisted, gory pile, there's an unrecognizable figure... Except, y'know. Dean can recognize a _few_ things. Not any of the clothes, no; the clothes are just mostly sweatpants, generic torn uniforms given to all the contestants. And the face nearly impossible to even look at — it was a body in an open, wooded area left to rot for days until these hunting groups had stumbled upon it. Of _course_ it's not gonna resemble much after the bugs get a hold of it, and the thought makes his stomach churn. But he sees grotesque similarities he can't completely dismiss. And he can't pretend it's a _coincidence_ , that this dead, bloated figure's bare chest has a _devil's trap_ sigil tattooed just under its collarbone. Half of the tattoo peaks out, mocking him. Just beneath the heavy weight of a wendigo's splayed arm is the ragged corpse of what is his brother.

His brother's body, from many years ago. His brother's body, being surely copied now to fly under hunter radars. Being used to collect meals for a kitsune kid. Used to cart around some young shifter, probably his own. And hell, maybe if there wasn't a dead body at this guy's hands, maybe if he wasn't using Sam's face, he'd find it in his heart to pity him. Maybe he would have understood, sympathized, whatever. Family should be protected, right?

But he just wants to jam a silver blade through the fucker's heart.

_This isn't what he wanted._

The hope drains and his stomach rebels against breakfast.

 

 

* * *

 

_"Oh, crap — Sammy! Sammy, your arm, oh shit — It's not that bad, let me see. It's not that bad. Hang on, Sammy, I'll get you help. Don't cry, I'll get you some help—"_

 

 

* * *

In the meanwhile, Castiel has been following a trail of his own for these last few weeks.

It had been a loose trail, but the longer he followed, the more he felt confident that there was _something_ at the end of it; he simply couldn't guarantee it would be _their_ Sam. Dean's Sammy. And telling Dean without any confirmation would be a tragedy. If Dean's right and Sam is not _truly_ Sam, then... he would be dashing anything Dean has left to hold onto against the rocks if he gave false hope. Castiel could be cruel sometimes with his friend when it came to the truth (perhaps in the before more than now), but never so terribly. He keeps it to himself, and instead he moves from location to location, seeking out angels who are willing to entertain the idea of him looking for his _'precious Winchesters'_. He's not in the mood for games — but any lead is better than none. He has a task, and considering what being he is, he's quite bullheaded to complete what's put in front of him. That's simply their way of things. Celestial beings can be frustrating in that sense.

In the end, though, the angels are not what lead him down his path.

No, he's lead by a soft voice in his head, drifting through like a radio playing distantly on a breezy spring day.

_'Dear angels, Leia told me how to pray. Please take care of Sam, he has bad dreams sometimes.'_

Prayers. Prayers from a quiet little voice. He can't quite place the human — which is a bit strange, because he can place quite a few, especially the children. He's followed every prayer for a 'Sam' that has passed through his mind these last few years. He's investigated _every single one_ , because he's never heard _Sam's_ voice reach out, and he thought that perhaps... perhaps if someone reached out on Sam's behalf, and Castiel could trace the steps... He could save Sam. He could save him and Dean both.

The prayers do not cease, at any rate. He follows the trail for many days. They're nightly, around the same time, with the same timid voice. A Sam is spoken of, a Sam with bad dreams. Over and over, a simple request he cannot fufill: _please take care of Sam, please take care of Sam, please keep Sam safe, please don't hurt him, don't let him get hurt._ He pulls his old, rickety vehicle over, on the outside of a long stretch forest. Near him there's a distinct trail made with the faintest of footsteps that leads into plush, hidden land. There's a lake around here, if he recalls correctly. A lake he remembers watching the creation of, now that he thinks on it for a little while.

And straight ahead, the child reaches out to the heavens, the same time as always:

_'Dear angels, Sam left to get Leia some food. Please take care of him, because he's always scared. He's the only one who takes care of us.'_

Masked in a nighttime darkness, Castiel wanders ahead into the brush, toward the gentle prayer.

 


	11. When the Wild Things Pray

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When it came to Sam, though, it was a bizarre thing to meet him. And he had placed his hand over Sam's with sincerity. 'At last, the man behind the voice.'

Castiel remembers with great clarity, the first time Sam Winchester's prayers had crossed into the threshold angels are so tuned into. He himself had been drifting along the border of a peaceful heaven when a soft, young voice had wriggled past all other whispered _'amens'_ and had caught his attention. Looking down, he could see that Sam had been young, very young, kneeling at a pew with wide, curious eyes. That, Castiel remembers, had been surprising to him — the vessel of Lucifer himself, reaching out in such an innocent gesture of faith. The pastor's name was Jim, that he recollects; he knew all of the truly noble men who had dedicated their lives to God, just as well as when he saw the names of prophets when he closed his eyes.  
  
"Please protect my dad when he leaves me and my brother... He works a lot," Sam had prayed. Castiel, vast and heavy and glowing with celestial intent, listened with a rare feeling, a pleasant wistfulness, a wordless pity for a child who had no clue what the future held. The angels had known, quite well, the world of the Winchesters and their importance to the Earth and its future. Their future. And despite all of Sam's great fears, they had heard his requests, every one of them... They had simply never answered, merely canted an ear and listened, some with morbid curiosity, some with great disdain, some with relief that their paradise loomed ever closer in a universe that felt so tiring and tedious.  
  
Castiel sees now that he's wiser, more human himself, that what Sam did was a sign that Lucifer was never going to win.  
  
Strange, how much you can learn in such a short few years, even when you're a being of impossible age. It's as if the Winchesters themselves had stopped the clock for him, blocked the safer, ignorant path he had traveled with their own bodies. Castiel doesn't tend to dwell because he thinks he would go insane if he looked back over it all, but sometimes he remembers. Sometmies he glances back into time and sees a scrappy young man praying, afraid of visions and what he was becoming. Asking for his brother's safety. Dean had never prayed; Castiel had very little interpretation of the man until he'd dragged him out of hell and _saw_ there was goodness trapped beneath miles of brimstone and violence. That was the moment he truly knew Dean Winchester. When it came to Sam, though, it was a bizarre thing to meet him. And he had placed his hand over Sam's with sincerity. _'At last, the man behind the voice.'_  
  
The boy with the demon blood.  
  
After that, Sam... Sam had prayed still, even after the world shattered and crumbled around him. Over and over again. Castiel had made one of the unkindest cuts of all, bore a hole right through Sam's mind, but Sam still reached out to him. And now... nothing.  
  
If Dean is correct... If Dean is truly correct and Sam's face is not his own, it could explain why Sam had been so quiet. Why Sam Winchester has given up his daily prayer. It would explain why he wants to run long and fast in any direction but Dean's or his or Charlie's. It could explain the strange choice in companionship for certain. Whatever the case, Castiel can't let himself give up the hope Sam had potentially lost. The youngest Winchester had helped carry Dean and him through dark times; he would like to help return the favor. And most of all, he would like to have his friend back.  
  
Please, let this be Sam. They all need this.  
  
_Nothing is worth losing you,_ he had told him once. It applies more and more by the day.  
  
Castiel steps through untended grass and wonders if he's made some sort of strange error coming in here to the wilder outskirts of Oregon. Ever since he had learned of Naomi's tampering, he'd always worried he didn't function properly anymore, and maybe it's true. But he _does_ hear this small child even still, so he trudges forward through the inky world. He loosens his tie as the humidity toys with his vessel, and only stops with a held breath when he sees the faint echoes of light that would be difficult for a human eye to perceive. Whoever is out here, they've been careful to black out their existence. Their windows.  
  
The prayers have stopped, but he's close.  
  
Stepping out of the thick entanglement of brush, he finally stands facing the house. He notes with some disappointment that there's no vehicle to speak of; it doesn't seem right, that little fact. It's a long trek to civilization from here. He can only conclude that not everyone who lives here is present.  
  
The wooden cabin itself is of decent size, its windows carefully shielded to prevent outside light from trickling out, and one could imagine a small family settling in during the spring; the area is oddly immaculate compared to the disorganized beauty of nature that cupped the home softly — the stack of wood outside is carefully piled, the roof is clean, the earth around the cabin plucked free of nosy plantlife. Cas has to step aside to avoid a small garden, where tomato and lettuce is growing in; he knew a few angels who would have loved to help it thrive in passing. He gently runs a hand over the leaves a taller plant and approaches the front of the house quietly, chin tipped in determined confidence.  
  
There are traps put into place, he can tell; he had stepped over some wire that would have likely caught on a normal man's foot. What it would do, he wasn't sure, but he wasn't eager to find out. What he does know about the booby-trapped land is that it is undoubtedly the work that would befit a hunter, or... a shapeshifter with a skilled hunter's memories. And yet despite this thought, the most unsettling detail of all is a children's kickball sitting beside the small porch, because there is something here that is innocent and gentle and unworthy of being bothered by his presence.  
  
He breathes a soft sigh and regrets the shredded state of his wings, though he imagines no matter how he appears, it's not going to be pleasant; he has the distinct feeling knocking won't work as well as intended. So instead, he grabs the knob and forcefully shoves the front door open. His power leaves little resistance. The wooden frame bounces weakly off the wall, the creaking of his welcome slicing through what would have been a tense silence. The inside of the cabin is all warm in color, even in the dark, something he notes immediately. On the coffee table there is a very old kid's coloring book alongside some broken crayons, but even more telling is the plate holding what looks to be some sort of pasta in a sauce left partially touched — he remembers stocking them when he worked in the gas station. Sometimes he would use his meager earnings on it, when the uncomfortable sensation of hunger kicked in without warning or kindness.  
  
These must be the children, and they must have somehow sensed his arrival before he opened the door.  
  
Perhaps because one is this alleged kitsune, with such fine hearing and scent catching.  
  
He notes a pallet of blankets on the couch; the children are sleeping here in the living room with a small television, poor reception, no face of Sam in sight. He steps into the hallway, masking his heavy steps across old wooden flooring with some level of gentle stealth. While there's a heaviness in his heart — Sam's not here, Castiel would have known, wouldn't he? — there's some sliver of hope. Surely, something has to be here. He couldn't afford to leave empty-handed. If he could just speak with the children, learn more about what they know. He has no intention of hurting them; he has no intention of letting Dean sink further into his own darkness by allowing him to do so, either. He'd like to think his friend is stronger than that, more human than that.  
  
"My name is Castiel," he announces, appearing in the dimness of a child's bedroom. His eyes scan the small desk inside, the quilt laid with care, the half-dressed barbie doll abandoned on the floor. There's no signs of life inside this one, but when he enters the next room — clearly that of an older child, likely a girl — he does feel an aura that leaves the atmosphere heavy. He steps in the doorway, but goes no further, electing to put his hand on the door frame instead. "I'm an angel of the Lord, and I heard your prayer; you asked for protection for Sam, didn't you? I believe... I'm one of his friends."  
  
"Angel," a voice says, awed, from behind the cracked closet door.  
  
"Lilly, no," the other voice hisses sharply.  
  
Castiel raises his hands, even though they couldn't possibly see him through the heavy frame. "... Please. I'm Sam's friend. I just want to talk. May we talk?"  
  
_Please,_ he thinks. _Please, lead me, show me something is left of Sam Winchester._ If there was ever anything at all. It feels almost hopeless in tune with looking for his father and coming back with empty hands and a cold amulet. The door creaks open, and one half of a child's wary face appears; she's young, a bit younger than Claire perhaps, but she's clearly beyond her years. Her blond hair curls around a pair of slit, cat-shaped eyes, a threat lingering in her stare. He knows in that instant that if he tried to move forward at all, she would easily leave the safety of the door to lash out. All for the sake of the other child, who is poking her head out, too, her wide eyes scanning him. Perhaps for danger. Perhaps out of stunned curiosity. He realizes after a moment that she's trying to follow an outline where wings should be, likely confused by the physical absence of them. She expected them.  
  
These poor children, he thinks. They weren't made to be in this world; they're rough creations, not so carefully touched by the hand of God, but by the heavy grip of Eve and her strange concoctions that form so many of the supernatural. He pities them and where they will no doubt end up — beyond his reach, in a world he had personally waded through. Something about it twists in his stomach where it didn't before, before he walked the earth so freely.  
  
"You're an angel?" the kitsune girl asks. It sounds like he's convincing her well enough, and relief relaxes his shoulders a fraction. "One of the real ones."  
  
He nods. "I am."  
  
"Good," she says, an edge to her tone. She pushes open the closet door fully with newfound confidence — and his eye is drawn immediately to the angel banishing sigil drawn in blood on the painted wood. Her hand drips with blood, her claws fully extended. "Then this'll work on you."  
  
Before he can even manage a stunned protest, she slaps her hand against the symbol. Light fills the room, shocking everyone it surrounds, and the shapeshifter cries out in fear from it before he's catapulted effortlessly with a guttural scream back to the gates of Heaven. He spirals wildly, bounces painfully against a grassy hill, and finds himself groaning into the soil of someone's afterlife; the heaven is sunny and bright and someone is having a picnic nearby. They startle and stare.  
  
Castiel drags himself to his feet.  
  
"... That was not what I expected."  


* * *

  
  
This isn't what Leia expected.  
  
Lilly sits on the couch, sucking on her index and middle finger anxiously, wearing the face of a scared little boy with a heavy mask of freckles. Leia glances at her occasionally, sometimes runs a hand over the top of the shapeshifter's head, her lips a thin and grave expression. She's got her disposable cellphone to her ear and Sam is cursing softly (panicked) at the end of the line. As she had anticipated he would. It's the hunter's way, to curse under distress. Adults, really.  
  
"How, how did — I'm sorry, Leia, I shouldn't have... You said... Castiel?" He sounds so unsure and small, she wishes she could fix it. Instead, she hums a confirmation, calm, careful. Their father is clearly going to be fraught with anxiety no matter what she says, but she's careful to monitor his panic regardless. Leia may be young, but she already knows how easily he blames himself for anything that happens; he's sensitive to fault, because he thinks he's terrible, and that's just not true. Leia, she's seen into his heart. He held her hand when the fires nearly burned them to death. He held a stranger's hands, a monster's hands, and said it would be okay. She sees nothing but goodness. Flayed, frayed, but good.  
  
Sam continues, clearly driving far too fast wherever he is: "You need to pack everything up, okay? Pack bags with anything you guys want to bring, okay? We have to be ready to go."  
  
"... Yeah... I know you said angels are dangerous, but... is Castiel bad?" She sits down beside Lilly, and Lilly leans on her, holding her barbie close to her chest. Leia regrets a lot, now. Regrets snapping at Lilly earlier for something she had taught her personally. She knows she shouldn't have panicked, but she had just — she had just accidentally summoned an angel into their safe space. Leia was afraid. It's not often she feels the tickle of panic, but it's there. It's there.  "He said he was your friend. Is he bad? Did he lie when he said he was your friend?"  
  
Sam is quiet on his end, something heavy in the silence. Memories, maybe. She doesn't know.  
  
"... He's not... He's not bad. He is my friend, but it's just complicated. It's not good to stay where someone will know. Things go wrong."  
  
_Like they already have,_ he wants to say.  
  
"Dad," she says softly, "I like it here a lot. I... We don't know if anything bad's gonna happen. This is home."  
  
"I know. I know, I'm sorry," he says with strained conviction, "I'd rather lose the house than risk losing you two, do you understand? We can replace a house."  
  
They quiet. The staccato of an engine rumbles in the shell of her delicate ear, and she can hear Sam's soft breath through his nose.  
  
"... It's not your fault. You had to get food for me," she mumbles.  
  
"Leia," he cuts in, sharp. "You haven't hurt anybody. You've been good; you've done everything you should have. None of this is on you, either."  
  
"... I taught Lilly how to pray," she admits, strained. Her hand clasps the phone tighter. It's just — it's just that Lilly wanted to know more, because Leia had put the idea of heaven in her mind. She just wanted to give her sister some peace of mind, that's all. She never meant for good intentions to pave a road like this. Now — now there's all this uncertainty. All this fear. And Lilly just sits here clasping onto her like she's a life raft. "He found us because she was praying. I just wanted to... make her feel better..."  
  
"You were being a good big sister," he says. He doesn't skip a beat. "I'm proud of you. Okay?"  
  
It punches the breath out of her. She nods, rubbing her stinging eyes, finding it within herself to focus again. To be stern, sure, certain. She couldn't afford weakness. She knows Sam would never fault her for it, but she was in the ring, too. She committed atrocities against other kids, other monsters. She was no better than him — she may not have killed as many, but she was still a killer whether she wanted to be or not. But he's proud. He's proud, and he trusts her. She can't let him and Lilly down now. Be strong. Be a good monster.  
  
"I'll be home in a few days; I'm so sorry, I'll go as fast as I can, but I'm far out here. If you hear anything, _see_ anything, you go straight into the basement, okay? Go to our emergency spot, and stay there for a little while. It's got a little food. And — don't forget your gun, okay? Remember to keep the safety on, keep the clip out, aim for the chest if someone breaks through that door. Don't you give them even a second—"  
  
"I know, Dad, I know. It's okay."  
  
"Yeah." He clears the frog from his throat. "It's — okay. I, I, um."  
  
"I love you, too, Dad," Leia says. She swears she can _hear_ a smile from him, strained and tired and so very afraid. She holds the phone to Lilly's ear for a moment, coaxing her to speak. "Tell dad you love him, Lilly."  
  
"I love you, Dad," Lilly mumbles in a sleepy breath. "Don't crash our car."  
  
Sam laughs wetly, but the engine roars onward and the tires fly over asphalt roads mercilessly.  
  
It's okay. Dad'll be home, and they'll all be okay.  
  
"I love you, Lilly," she says softly, squeezing the small child's pudgy, warm hand.  
  
"I love you, too."  


* * *

  
  
"That can't be," Castiel says on the other end of the line. Dean wipes his lips, the rancid taste of past meals on his tongue; the toilet bowl had been his friend for a hot fucking minute, though every urge to sob hysterically as of late has been replaced with a burning need to wipe Sam's fake off the map; clean the slate, because nobody else can be Sam, nobody could ever replace his brother. Fuck them for trying. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries not to freak the fuck out at Castiel, because he doesn't know. He doesn't _know_. Cas says, "I found the two children; a Sam taught them that sigil, Dean. And it may not be him for _sure_ , but Sam isn't here to confirm, and — Dean, we can't _know_ for sure — "  
  
"I saw his corpse," Dean says numbly, and Castiel's momentary lapse in convincing Dean of anything, well, it speaks a lot.  
  
"That... that can't be. How?"  
  
"Sherri," he replies. If his voice staggers, Cas doesn't say a single goddamn word. Dean's barely keeping his shit together, anyway, and Castiel knows it. This was his one shot at his brother, and he's missed it. Now... Now they can see — Sam's dead, and Sam's out there, somewhere. And Dean will continue to pull his hair out wondering who's got his brother in their icy grips. "... Sherri's a photographer; she took pictures of older monster ring grave sites. _Body dumpsites._ Cas, I — there's a body in one shot, from a long, _long_ time ago. From before I even gave the Mark back to Cain, before all of that shit. There's a body, and it's definitely Sam's. No doubt in my mind, Cas. It's _Sam_."  
  
Sam was eaten by worms years ago. Dean wants to scream.  
  
"... I don't know what to say," Castiel finally replies. His voice is exhausted at last, defeated. On his friend's level now. Dean closes his eyes and wants to sleep forever. Outside of the bathroom, he's imagining Sherri and Dennis are waiting with surprising patience for him. Not that Dean cares; Dean hasn't cared about much the last few years. If they wanna leave, they can friggin' leave. He has all he needs now, all the knowledge that matters. If Dennis wants revenge for Eric, he'll get it. Through Dean. He sits down on the edge of the bathtub and brushes his fingers through his hair, which is tacky, oily. He can't remember his last real shower.  
  
"Say the address," he demands. "Tell me where this guy is."  
  
"Dean..."  
  
"What the fuck do you expect from me? Cas, he's probably the one who _killed_ him. He probably fucking killed my brother, you expect me to sit here?"  
  
"What if you're wrong?"  
  
"I'm gonna do the tests, Cas. I'm not a complete moron. I'm just not gonna let this slide after what he's done. He's killed a kid already. A _hunter_. And he's — he's probably killed my brother... _Our_ brother." He feels guilty to point it out, like Castiel doesn't know. Like he doesn't get that. They're family, they've been family for so long. Dean has nobody to blame but himself for breaking it up like he has; he knows it. He's said it before, he'd say it again. His stupid mouth, his stupid choices, they got his brother to distance himself; they got him into the Mark of Cain. They made a nightmare of a trickling effect. And Dean, well. Dean wants blood for it. The Mark's gone, but he wants to kill something so bad, he practically tastes it. "I'm not done with this until I get even. _This_ is how I handle it. _This_ is how I can fucking move on."  
  
Hesitancy. "The children. You're not..."  
  
"Fuck, Cas, I'm not gonna kill a couple of kids." Not even monster kids. Not like this, not now. They're just... kids. Dean's not that far gone.  
  
Mostly gone, but not that far.  
  
Castiel relents, anyway. "... It's Oregon... Near Siuslaw National Forest. I can give you the route—" He does. Messily, Dean jots the location down in pen, on an old motel notepad. He can't afford to miss a single word. "I won't be able to get back very quickly from here; be careful, Dean. Please."  
  
"... I will."  
  
"Will you take back-up?"  
  
"Hell no," he says, feeling automatonic. But rigid in his way (or the highway). "This one's mine. Don't give a shit what they want, this is my deal. My brother. My rules."  
  
"I see."  
  
"... Just get back to the bunker; I'll meet you there after I straighten all this shit out. Trust me."  
  
"No, I'm going to head back toward your location. It will give me better peace of mind, to be close by enough to help. But... I _do_ trust you, Dean. You'll do what's right," Castiel hangs up on that note. Dean's not sure what Cas is getting at, but he pockets his phone and tears away the single crumpled paper, his eyes burning holes into the address. This is it. He just needs to get there, stake it out, wait for this fatherly shapeshifter bastard to rear his head. He'll give the guy one thing — he takes care of his own. He'll be back there, he'll come back to this cabin. Stocked with food. The idea of someone using his brother's dimpled grin makes him sick.  
  
Time to move.  
  
As he opens the bathroom door and steps back out in the disheveled motel room, he notices two things. One, it's eerily silent, right out of a horror movie. Two, _nobody_ greets him as he steps out; no Sherri asking for her pictures back, no Dennis anxiously asking where they're off to next. The _third_ thing he doesn't expect but _certainly_ notices as it happens is a sudden pain in his head as someone hits him from the side. _Hard_. His vision explodes with stars and flares. The floor rushes up to meet him as his knees; unconsciousness decides to play keep-away in the dark with his brain.  
  
Dean's unaware, lost in inky nothingness, while Dennis crouches down and pries the written directions out of clenched fingers.  


* * *

  
  
" _Sammy_ , wait — !!"  
  
Dean puts out his hands, but Sam's already airborne, black cape flapping violently as he leaps from the shed. The fear hits Dean like a thousand bricks, and his father's words repeat in his head over and over and over. _Keep an eye out for your brother, watch out for Sammy, don't let him do anything stupid._ But here he is, not fast enough, not strong enough, not _smart_ enough. That moment of blissful youth before was a short-lived beast, euthanized much too soon. Sam knows the mistake too late. Dean should have never let him get into harm's way. No take-backs. That's not how life works. People make choices, people get hurt.  
  
The nine-year-old boy staggers forward uselessly, hands out, praying to catch the flailing kindergartner.  
  
_Too slow._  
  
Little Sam hits the ground, something _cracking_ as the boy goes still against the grassy earth.  
  
And all Dean can think is —  
  
_You killed your little brother._


	12. As the Wild Things Flee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Run.

Dean feels like he's been on one of his usual benders, when he finally wakes up. He tastes a little blood around a mouthful of something settled in his mouth that tastes distinctly of motor oil — can't recollect why that'd be, as of right now — and his heart seems to have taken up residency in the back of his skull instead. Groggily, he blinks, chases away the image of Sammy falling from the shed, wondering why the same frantic fear has him by the balls all over again. He tugs his arm, and the chains of handcuffs rattle against the towel rack his bloodless limbs've been uncomfortably attached to. His fingers tingle from the angle as he grips the silver bar.  
  
"Wha' the... fuck?" is what he would say. If he didn't have a rag stuffed in his mouth, drying out his tongue.  
  
"Hey," Dennis says in solemn focus; he's digging through Dean's duffel, inspecting the hunter's plethora of useful gadgets and weapons. No Sherri in sight, probably left while Dean was in the bathroom on the phone. Everything rushes back to Dean the moment he sees that grim profile — Sam's still gone, there's likely a shifter with his face, maybe something worse, and Dennis... Dennis fucking hit him. He knocked him out, got the jump on him. Confusion for Dean Winchester often means wrath; when he looks at the offending hunter, he glares enough to overdose the guy on it. The younger man just shakes his head though, clearly not proud of his actions, but not necessarily ready to overturn such a terrible choice in enemy. He says, voice firm, "You were planning on leaving me behind, Dean. Couldn't let that happen. See, I got a stake in this, too. The guy he killed, that was my best friend."  
  
He glances over, maybe to see if Dean's expression flounders. It doesn't. But he continues anyway.  
  
"I lost my father to a kitsune case, you know. Not a lucky day, got involved with a smart one. I figured that was how this life worked, you know? He was bound to have his ticket punched. I was fucked up, though. I flew off the wheels, after that. Slept around, drank, threw myself headfirst into cases... I'm sure you could relate."  
  
Dean glances away, not wanting to hear this. Wishing he'd heard it all earlier, maybe. The dawning realization of what Dennis' intentions are grows more by the minute; there was plenty the hunting world didn't know about Dean. Dean just forgot to keep in mind there's plenty he doesn't know about hunters. He shakes his chafed wrists to no avail as Dennis tests the weight of one of his favorite shotguns.  
  
"That guy that got killed... Eric. He was the one who got me back on the straight and narrow. He was one of my best friends, you know? Helped me kick some nasty habits. He was a good guy, Dean. He didn't deserve that. To get his brains scooped out, to get left there like a sack of meat. He was a good, good kid. The only reason he was even there was to help me track down the kitsune that did in my father."  
  
"You were gonna leave me in the dark and run off yourself." He breathes out shakily and pockets some of Dean's silver rounds. Perfect for a kitsune, perfect for a shifter. Their weaknesses are alike. "This could be the culprit, and he's wearing your brother's face. I'm sorry, Dean, but I just can't let you go in there."  
  
"I'm gonna rip your lungs out through your asshole," Dean wants to say. Instead he spits and gnaws at his gag. Ain't that a bitch. You think you trust a guy, and he knocks you out cold. The thought almost makes him wince aloud — a mental foot in the mouth, when he thinks of what happened to Sam all those years ago. The punch heard 'round the world, the one he dreams about sometimes when he doesn't get blackout drunk. Stupid, stupid—  
  
"I've known you long enough to see Sam's your weakness." Dennis steps toward Dean, his boots clicking against the bathroom tile. He crouches low, brandishing between his fingers the partially crumpled hotel notepad paper detailing the whereabouts of the shifter, of the children. Dean glances down at his own pocket, stupefied, which he realizes is ridiculous; of course Dennis took the directions. Why wouldn't he? He's on a mission, out for blood. Dean sees it in his eyes when he looks up at him. They match each other's steps, both reflect an icy yearning for revenge. The anxious, mildly Sam-like exterior the guy had exuded before has been tempered with something far more deadly.  
  
"You've got a mild concussion, sorry. I'll call someone in to let you go in a while, after I get enough road between us. If you wanna get even, fine, but I'm not gonna let you screw this up for me after all our work to find this guy." Dennis rises to stand and turns away, unresponsive to Dean's muffled curses, because he's got one thing on his mind. God knows Dean gets the feeling, even if he wants to punch the guy in the nose more than once. "I'll put down the thing using your brother's face. Least I could do."  
  
Then he jangles the keys of the Impala at the air before closing the bathroom door behind him.  
  
Dean kicks an uncoordinated leg with a muted yell, bloody spittle from his bitten tongue dripping down a prickly chin.  
  
Time to fuck up his wrists, he thinks. He's not sure why — it's more and more unlikely Sam's really Sam, but he feels an icy stab in his gut that he recognizes is the same panic Sam always seems to instill on him. The fucking dead bastard, always with the panic, the fervent worry. Sam never asked for it; it was just a knee-jerk response. One that quite possibly broke apart everything they ever had when he suckerpunched him all those years ago. With a roar that hardly escapes him, he begins the task of violently yanking on the metal rod, unflinching as blood races from raw wrists.  
  
_Sam_.  
  
A name that haunts him, and yet he can't ever stop thinking it, in the dead of morning, during a hunt, when he drinks too much and expects someone other than Castiel to pry the bottle from his fingers. Sam. What usually follows is _'I'm sorry'_. He should have given that to Sam before he vanished. Too little, too late. He thumps his throbbing head against the hotel wall, eyes burning wetly.  
  
_I'm sorry._

* * *

  
  
This is such a familiar sensation... that feeling that you're drowning on air, like oxygen itself has turned against you. Sam had gotten used to the panic and clench of his heart, especially a few months into captivity. It wasn't as though it were a _new_ feeling, but it was also reminder that he was alive. In the Cage, he didn't have that breath to give, no living to be afforded. Instead he'd been torn to pieces by the _fall_ alone, his physical body left a sad crumpled heap to be toyed with later on. Sometimes Lucifer re-mended the husk and would then slowly, intimately push Sam's howling spirit through the eye sockets. He would do things afterward to that writhing, living creature that Sam would never revisit for long, save for moments of fallen defenses in the midst of sleep. He doesn't remember Castiel plucking his body away from the Cage. He just remembers it suddenly not being _there_ anymore. It didn't really matter. It was still 'exquisite pain'. Everything Lucifer did was 'exquisite'.  
  
Sam swerves to stay in his lane, not from exhaustion but from the shaking adrenaline that hasn't left him since Leia called hours beforehand. He knew that _something_ could happen. He knew that he'd made too many blunders now to keep them completely safe, but he had to go and restock, didn't he? He had to feed Leia, because her dying was not an option. Them dying is not an option. But... it was just Castiel, and he trusted Castiel. Couldn't he? He wasn't the same angel that pressed his fingers to Sam's mind and undressed it, scalded it, left it the hallucinating mess. He made it up to Sam, took the insanity himself, even though it was hellish.  
  
And Sam _still_ holds onto the words the angel had told him, back when he wanted to kill himself in his search for Gadreel. He still doesn't understand how such compassionate words could ever apply to him, but he took them, even after all this time. Even after fight after fight as a monster. Cas wouldn't hurt those children. Right? He wouldn't. Castiel is not that kind of angel, wouldn't hurt his kids.  
  
  
But he speeds anyway. Trust is not so easy to offer anymore, and he has a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach. Would Dean try to find him? Would _Dean_ try to hurt the kids? He doesn't want to imagine that his brother would murder these children after he likely takes Sam out, but he also isn't sure of anything anymore. What if Dean despised monsters more and more? What if he's changed? What if Lilly or Leia try to attack him and he retaliates? What then? There are too many _variables_ , too many concerning outcomes. So much so that he can't handle the thoughts floundering in his head; images of the girls bloody and lifeless in tacky red puddles in their cabin make him grit his teeth painfully and slam his fist against the dash. Again and again until a heavy, calming sensation of loss falls over his shoulders like a weighted blanket. Loss, before there's anything truly lost yet. He hopes.  
  
Please, _please._  
  
He needs to get back to them, and then they'll leave. They'll leave to another country, for fucks sake. They'll just go. Start fresh, with less mistakes. He's not a lawyer, he's not married, he's not a hunter or a decent person or capable of helping anyone — except for maybe them. He's got them, as slippery and illusive as the rest of the good things he's had once upon a time. He won't let anyone take it away from him. He won't let anyone take this away from _them_.  
  
Purgatory is not an option.  
  
He glances sparingly at the watch beneath his battered knuckles, trying to calculate his speed, the time it'd take to get back.

* * *

  
  
Leia's ears pick up a thrumming truck, a few hours following her call to Sam.  
  
And then a few _other_ vehicles pull up after it.  
  
She doesn't waste any time in grabbing Lilly by the arm and pulling her quickly toward the back of the cabin. The younger child cries out at first, offended at the sudden jerk of her hand when she'd been so carefully placing her favorite doll back into her bag, but she picks up on Leia's startled expression and leaves it at that. Clasping her flower-patterned backpack to her bosom, the shifter keeps in step with her sister. Leia doesn't grab for her own bag. She just grips Sam's jewelry box in one hand, as if that's the only possession she elects to salvage. Nothing else is irreplacable, if she's honest with herself. A doll is just a doll. A picture is worthless if it costs the people in it. She's learned these things carefully.  
  
Admittedly, birthday gifts are replaceable, too. She's not sure what compels her with such urgency to hold on tight to it. But she does.  
  
They exit through the back and quickly crouch down beside the double doors that make up the basement entrance. Hushing an already silent Lilly for the sake of caution, she pries open one of the two doors, looking into the drifting, musky darkness down below. The men hopefully don't notice; hunters, she's assuming by the threat in their tone and the cock of their guns. She feels a stab of guilt at not having dragged Lilly into the hiding space the _moment_ she had gotten off the phone with Sam. But the journey down there is intimidating and certainly a little frightening, ushering memories from the monster ring warehouse; Lilly squeezes her hand enough to bruise the thin bones there, trembling slightly where she follows.  
  
Once the door is closed behind them and they've descended the small collection of steps, Leia crouches down next to her sister and holds her face firmly in her hands. She can see her perfectly in the darkness — Lilly likely sees her well, herself. Shapeshifters are odd creatures, even to kitsune.  
  
"Listen," she whispers, and runs her thumb over the child's fatty cheek. "It's going to be okay. I'll protect you... Just stay very quiet. We have to wait for Sam."  
  
Lilly sucks nervously on her thumb, nodding with wide eyes. She understands more than anyone on the outside would give her credit for. Leia gives her a twitching but true smile before adjusting the straps of Lilly's little backpack and herding her toward the back wall. Sitting in the corner, she sits with her side pressed to the smaller girl's shoulder, like two halves forming a whole, and then looks up at the ceiling as footfalls thud above her. They're checking every room with an murderous energy, an she realizes very quickly they're here to kill first and ask absolutely no questions. Kids or not, they're monsters, and hunters aren't kind, aren't patient.  
  
Memories from a long, long time ago fill her nostrils with the sent of blood, her ears with the sound of a heartbeat in tempo with foreign voices. _'Don't come out, Leia,'_ her mother had told her roughly. She and her father had shoved the small child into the bathroom of grungy old apartment when the demons had come knocking. Leia was so small... Her hand had hardly fit in the palm of her father's. ' _Don't come out, hide under the sink,'_ her mother had said over and over. She had curled up in the soft, hot bundle of towels there and waited. Her parents' slit eyes and twisted grimaces would be the last she would see of them alive. After the telltale sounds of a struggle and a silence she'd nearly drowned in, the demons had torn open the bathroom door and dragged her out from her hiding spot by her long, blond hair. They'd dragged her past her dead mother and the headless corpse of her father. Then she would have her hair shorn off and would end up in one of those cages. A monster for fighting other monsters.  
  
Fighting small monsters. Little creatures that didn't stand a chance, brought only as meat and a twisted sideshow bloodbath before the main events.  
  
And she had killed so many. She had told herself they were mercy kills. Other monsters took their time. A lot of monsters didn't care if they suffered.  
  
At the horrible images from days past, she closes her eyes.  
  
"This isn't the same," she whispers. "It's okay."  
  
For a moment, it seems the danger is passing. The hunters have abandoned their search in the house after no doubt smashing everything up. She tries not to think about that, instead finding a glimmer of hope in the fact that they're stepping out into the outskirts of the forest, as if they'll perhaps find their wandering targets close by instead of beneath their feet.  
  
She hugs Lilly, more for herself.  
  
The smell of wet fur hits her nose a moment later, stealing her breath when she realizes what it means. There's a dog. A dog who has so easily trailed after the scent of these two inhuman children, familiarized with the thrill of the supernatural hunt. It happens in quick succession — the animal's sniffing, eager nostrils just outside the locked doors, followed by a sharp bark that makes them both flinch. It scratches with heavy claws  on the wood, which shakes and jitters beneath the abuse. _Not good,_ Leia knows. _Not good._ There's nowhere to run — nowhere to hide, not down here, not in this dark, empty place that should have been their final hiding place. Lilly cries out weakly under her hands and leaps to hold her, hugging her as her eyes glisten with newfound panic. The crown of her sister's head is tucked under her chin before she pulls away, readying herself to defend her family.  
  
A gun goes off like demented thunder — shotgun, close range, blowing the lock right off the door. Boots travel down the steps. The raspy tone is not welcoming despite the gleeful melody hidden in the learned and adapted sadism. The shotgun cocks again, ready to aim and fire at a moment's notice. "Come out, come out, wherever you are. I know you're down here, you little bitches. We want your daddy."  
  
The hunter in the trucker's cap flashes a light down into the darkness, catching the reflection of silvery color in Lilly's wild stare. It's not the last thing he sees; that would be Leia's snarling face leaping from the shadows, flying past the barrel of his weapon. Her long nails slice easily through the skin on his throat, as easy as butter, as effortless as a crayon gliding over white paper. Blood splashes against her cheek from the sucking wound, a hot arterial spurt that nearly blinds her as her enemy topples down to the bottom of the steps. He's dead before he hits the ground. And she's not sure if she should be troubled by how untroubled she is that his life has been snuffed out. He was going to kill her. He was going to kill Lilly — Lilly, who is innocent, truly. Who doesn't slice throats with her nails or mercy-kill children far smaller than her. Lilly, who is rocking nervously on her knees by a corpse, hugging herself and calling for Sam.  
  
Next thing Leia knows, the forgotten Doberman leaping for her and clamping a strong set of teeth around her thin forearm. She cries out and twists, rolls down the steps as she sticks her fingers into the canine's eyes. She and the hunting dog fall down into the dark, the sound of their snarling and squeals drowned only Lilly's frantic scream.  
  
There's an echoing _crunch_. A silence, extended. Then there's a dripping _plip-plop_ of tacky red droplets.  
  
Finally, Leia holds out her shaking hand to Lilly, the flesh on her arm torn open and spilling blood.  
  
"C-come on, Lilly," she gasps out. With the faintest hesitation, Lilly takes her hand, steps over the dog's unnaturally twisted neck, and they ascend up toward the starry forest sky above as the roars of alerted hunters fill her sharp ears. Leia's jewelry box sits in the middle of the stained basement, plastic bracelets and earrings spilling out of the opening like brightly colored innards in the middle of an ever-expanding, sticky puddle.  
  
The forest swallows up the sprinting monster children, as the shadows give chase.


	13. How the Wild Things Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And that is when the thunder booms once more, a killing sound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for violence toward children and blood/gore. :(

Lilly's hand is a sweaty, warm heat in Leia's palm, squeezed tight even when the grip pulls every time that the shifter stumbles. The world around them is cold, though, cold and dark and dangerous, and this is what they have to hold onto, in every sense of the word. Rain falls in greater strength; Leia wipes it from her eyes, her blond bangs clinging to the sides of her face in waves. The forest is almost silent — silent ahead, anyway. Behind them, she can hear the heavy footfalls and knows they couldn't afford to stall or stumble for even a moment. Exhausted though they may be from running for so long, she knows a moment's rest could be their final. The distant voices crack against the air, a malicious whip of cruel intentions. Some are hunters who just want to get the job over with. Some enjoy the idea of tracking down another monster to snuff out, those of which Leia's father had always warned her about.  
  
Both her real father and Sam.  
  
The thought helps her feet fly. They run for what easily feels like an hour; she knows the forest, and it helps to their advantage as they shake hunter after hunter until the undisturbed quiet begins to trickle through the area in full. The fading echoes of the men's frustration empowers her. "Come on, Lilly, come on," she gasps. Her arm throbs miserably where the ugly bite runs pink in the rain water, but she can't think about that. She can't think about anything but running, all of her kitsune instinct thrumming through her like electricity. _Run and hide, find the deepest safety of the forest and curl around Lilly until the rain stops and the hunters leave and Sam returns—!_  
  
They start up a hill, cut through a small clearing, and head toward the infinite blackness of nighttime under the treetops.  
  
Then thunder booms, not from the sky, but from behind. Lilly's hand jerks hard as she crumples and drags Leia backward with her. The hill spins as they both roll without control to the bottom of the steep hillside, cushioned by the scratchy brush below. Mud squelches between her fingers as Leia sits up near instantly and whips around to see the state of her sister. Beside her, Lilly groans in terrible pain, a choked hiccup as she shakes painfully on the wet and grassy earth. Her face is in a flushed rictus of agony. "Leiaaaa," she sobs, and Leia's eyes follow the dim shape of the shifter's body quickly until she spots a bloody spot growing on the leg of Lilly's pajama bottoms. She pats her hand along the wounded limb until she finds the exact source — a section on the child's calf that has been mercilessly grazed by an unstoppable bullet. Even the gentle touch around the injury makes her itch all over. _Silver_.  
  
But she's relieved to find it hadn't found bone; it's not so bad that she'll be crippled from it for long. They can fix that. They can get through this even still. She ducks down low, waiting for any other sign of a gunshot. Maybe it had... been from a sniper rifle? Like the one they'd use to hunt deer. Dad takes one sometimes when he doesn't want to leave the cabin. For food.  
  
They were shot at like deer.  
  
She curses herself for not thinking about that, that it was more than possible they could hurt them from such a distance.  
  
"Stay down, stay down," she gasps, pressing her chest protectively over Lilly as she keeps her from surging up onto the wounded leg. Not only because it would make it worse, but because they're probably searching for the girls again through their scope even as they lay in wait. They'll need to go left or right, then, instead of up the hill.  
  
She smooths back Lilly's hair and smiles weakly. Learned from Sam. "We need to crawl. Can you crawl? Can you follow me?"  
  
Lilly sobs again, squeezing tears from her eyes. She isn't used to pain like this, and the thought shatters Leia's heart a little. She nudges the small girl though.  
  
"Come on — I know, I know it hurts, but I don't want you to die. Do you understand, Lilly? They must know we're right here. We _have_ to move."  
  
She nudges again, hoping it offers some level of motivation through the waves of hurt, and Lilly keeps weeping openly but rolls to her knees at last. They begin a slow, terrible crawl, and Leia hopelessly watches as blood trails behind her sister's wounded leg. This isn't good, she knows too well; they're both bleeding, both probably leaving clues as to where they've gone to next. She's never had to think about these things before. Her parents had always hunted for her, and in the monster ring there was no reason to know how to mask your presence; there was nowhere to run to.  
  
Her pupils turn into alarmed needles at the crunch of foliage nearby. She barely has any time to react before a bald man in heavy plaid steps out into the open space and looks right at the two children crawling on their bellies. There's nothing else Leia can do to run away. He's right there, and no amount of dragging will get her sister out of harm's way; she has to protect Lilly, though, because god knows she hasn't been able to protect her own family before her freedom had been given to her. She leaps for the man's flesh with a growl, claws slipping out and shining wet in the growing storm. Narrowly missing the gunshot that takes her hearing her for a moment, she sinks her nails into the man's shoulder. She had wanted the neck, but it's hard to aim when he's so quick, too.  
  
_He knows what he's doing—!_  
  
With the butt of his gun, he hits her hard across the side of the head. Stars explode in her eyes and she hits the ground gracelessly as Lilly screams for her. Leia crawls to all fours, swaying pathetically as the world spins, spins, _spins_. Even with her vision teeming with inkblots, she sees Lilly leaping up from where she lay and hobbling with her hands out, as if pleading with the man through her weak gestures and glossy, red eyes. Leia feels herself coming apart at the seams. Something fueled by hysteria rips into her chest, clawing at her full heart. She doesn't want to watch her sister die before her.  
  
Tinny footsteps trickle past Leia's brief deafness. Close by. It's over.  
  
"I got 'em, Dennis!" the man hollers.  
  
"Stop," Lilly says, voice weak, "Stop, stop."  
  
The hunter aims instead, right at the child's heart.  
  
" _No!_ "  
  
And that is when the thunder booms once more, a killing sound.

* * *

  
  
_Dean's wrists are raw and bloody, but the stupid beam he'd been cuffed to has been effectively ripped from the wall — all despite his gnawing concussion-induced headache that leeches coherency from him at the worst fucking times. He slams through the locked bathroom door with all of his weight, ankle crying after the tentative step he places on it; that's what happens when you use your foot as a barbaric lock pick, right? Right. Hissing, he ignores the throb and rushes out to the front of the motel, knowing full well his luck had run out years ago._  
  
_The impala is gone. That motherfucker took his baby; he figured as much when the son-of-a-bitch jingled his keys in front of his face, but it still leaves a burning rage all the same, one shaded only by the gnawing feeling in his gut that he has been left here without a quick ride. As he rushes back inside to retrieve the few valuables he has left, he gives a roar of frustration. His car-stealing skills aren't quite so rusty, but if it's gonna take precious moments he doesn't friggin' have—_  
  
_Precious moments for what, though?_  
  
_Sam's dead. He's not sure why he holds on to such a weak hope, that he's wrong. It's just..._  
  
_It's just — he wants to believe. So badly. He wants to be wrong so badly._  
  
_In his brief moment of bitterness, he almost doesn't notice the distant roar of an engine. It gets closer, though, and he snaps his head up in time to look out past the ugly green-squared curtains and see an ugly yellow car whip around the corner, parking rather sloppily in front of his room number. He sees the urgency now; Charlie is sitting in the driver's seat, ready to drag him in and bounce. And Sherri is sitting in the passenger's seat with a guilty hunch to her shoulders, camera hanging heavily around her neck. He comes stomping out like a man who's just been twice bitten, scowling and making the two girls shrink in their seats by association alone._  
  
_"Holy crap, what happened to your head?" Charlie asks._  
  
_Dean ignores her for the moment, rubbing his scalp and shoving himself into the cramped back seat._  
  
_"I'm so sorry, Dean - I got a message from Dennis," Sherri is quick to stammer, pale as if ready to feel his wrath; frankly, he doesn't give a shit, because she's here and she's not the one who clocked him upside the head. It counts for something. "I thought you were both going together, but then he said he'd—"_  
  
_"Doesn't matter," he cuts through, like a knife. "Just drive. I'll give you the coordinates. You'd better have a damn good phone GPS."_  
  
_Charlie knows better than to ask questions before she drives, so she pulls back out onto the road, leaving a motel room with two busted doors and a destroyed bathroom rack in their dust. Not his fault, so he's not about to feel bad for the maid. It'll be a story she can tell her kids or something. Meanwhile, Charlie looks in the rear-view mirror and snaps her fingers at Sherri to pull the first aid from the glove box; the kid's gotten really good at hunting, at being prepared, especially after the wartime affairs she'd gotten pulled into back in Oz._  
  
_"Didn't know you two were chummy," Dean grumbles._  
  
_"I've got my connections."_  
  
_"I gave her my phone number at a bar about a year back. We've... met off and on since," Sherri mutters._  
  
_"... Great, gonna have to keep that out of my head." Dean hisses as he presses the wound with fresh antibiotic pads, though the blood's already dried up and flaky, and his tongue aches with every word. He's going to kick that kid's ass for this, that's for damn sure. "Tell me what's going on, Sherri? You know about this little scheme?"_  
  
_She shakes her head fervently, quick to speak. "No! God, no. I left here thinking you and Dennis were still planning on going out together, to deal with - with, um. The shifter." Charlie looks at her sadly for a moment, a shared look of concern, before Sherri continues, "I didn't know he'd locked you down and took his own crew. I mean, I knew he was into the case, but I didn't ever think it'd be so - personal. He invited me to come, um. Take photo evidence, for him."_  
  
_"He's out of his goddamn mind," Dean says darkly._  
  
_Charlie shakes her head, sad eyes on the road. "... Losing someone important to you does that, I guess."_  
  
_Dean's not sure what it says about him, when he thinks of how familiar that feels... and yet how angry the excuse makes him._  
  
_He clutches the seat cushion tightly. They're ahead of him by an hour or two._  
  
_Sometimes an hour or two is all you need to finish a hunt._  
  
_Finally, out of anything good to give, he simply says, "Just... drive."_

* * *

  
Sam lowers his gun, watching the hunter standing before him crumple bonelessly down. He grabs the man's collar so he can't finish his terrible fall, tossing the corpse effortlessly to the side so that Lilly is spared from being crushed beneath the filthy bastard's body. She's shivering in the rain, while Leia stares with owl-eyed disbelief at their father standing in front of them, battered but _there_. And he's so fucking sorry it had taken him so long, and he's so fucking sorry they're so stunned to see him at all. He breathes out, tries not to think about the man before this that he had shot point-blank in the field, or the hunter who is currently deposited beside his family, dropped aside like trash. He doesn't have time to think about what that makes him, to not care so deeply for the lives he's snuffed out.  
  
He collapses to his knees and says, softly and apologetically, "Girls?"  
  
Lilly and Leia rush into his arms without another word needed, clinging to him like he's the embankment of a surging river. He buries his face in their hair and gives them that split-moment of comfort. It couldn't last long. There are still other hunters out there. But it's _something_. He strokes their matted, wet hair and swallows a lump that travels infinitely up his throat. Lilly is crying freely, but when he pulls back to look into Leia's eyes, he finds them dry and still shell-shocked. The kitsune girl is pale and tired and dazed, something awful from the monster ring trickling into her expression.  
  
This is his fault.  
  
He rubs his thumb over her cheek and notes the bloody wound on her arm.  
  
"Let me see; here, let me see."  
  
He's lucky they're resilient supernatural creatures; if she had been a normal little girl... he imagines she would have died far before he'd ever reached them. He pulls off his jacket, and then his plaid button-up, using that to wrap the wound to keep it from bleeding anymore. It seems to snap her out of her silence for the moment; she hisses a wince and grabs his arm, her claws drawing a little blood as he moves. He just reassures her softly under his breath, and her grip eases. Guiltily, it eases. He pats her hair again. "I'm proud of you; you did so good, both of you. It's okay. It's  okay. Lilly, let me see your leg, okay? Let me see."  
  
It's a grazed spot, not fatal in the least, and while he wants to treat it, too, the sounds of danger approaching once more set him on edge and leave him will little option. He pulls his jacket on Leia and holds her shoulders in his hands, massaging the tense flesh and bone. After seeing the bloody mess in the basement, just being able to hold them like this, it's... it's incredible. He thought he was never going to see them again, not alive and whole.  
  
There's no time to appreciate this fleeting, terrifying life, though. "You need to hide; I'll hang back and handle the people left, okay? You need to go to the watering hole and hide; do you remember where that is? Where we went fishing?"  
  
She stares for a moment, lips parted.  
  
"Leia!" he barks, and she flinches, but nods.  
  
"Watering hole. I can - I can do it, Dad. We'll go."  
  
He smiles a weak smile.  
  
"Take your sister and run."  
  
As the lightning flashes above, Leia and Lilly disappear into the brush without another word. It leaves him alone, gun in hand and focus battling with panic. _Deep breath, Sam._ One breath, two. His children have vanished into the thick foliage, and he's pried the shotgun from the dead hunter's rigid fingers. Three breaths, four. He lines his tall figure up against a nearby tree and counts every inhale and exhale while he prepares for his next kill. The crunch of feet flattening twigs and grass and a foolish stream of spoken thoughts keeps his attention; it's almost all he hears, even in the rushing hiss of rainwater. Drops roll down his cheek, his hair a splayed mess around his brow.  
  
_Crunch_.  
  
He twists around from behind his cover and aims, blasting the trespassing man with a single shotgun round, almost point blank. The hunter's (who is he, he's not sure, he doesn't know) chest explodes into a bloody and chaotic Pollock painting before the young guy drops like a bag of rocks to the forest earth. He reloads the stolen shotgun.  
  
He's younger than Kevin had been. He's just a kid, really. A kid who is armed to the teeth and ready to tear the girls apart, ready to tear him apart. It's no different than the young hunters he'd faced in the ring — asking him why he's doing this, asking him why they don't just try to fight their way to freedom, asking if he's _the_ Sam Winchester, if he has a plan, if he'll spare them.  
  
And he would just — he would think of living, because Dean needed him, because the Mark. The Mark.  
  
Something inside him crumples, and he loses himself in the drowning roar of the storm; the lightning paves the way to memory of him standing triumphant in the monster ring, his knife clenched in his hand and panic rounding his eyes. He shakes his head, tries to will away the haunting recollections, doesn't want to get lost in himself — and that's when someone lunges at him with an enraged scream. He hits the ground hard and struggles to cling to the shotgun crushed between him and a graying man with a deep, guttural war cry; the hunter looks familiar, but Sam couldn't remember the face, couldn't place it, couldn't place a time. He couldn't remember so many faces.  
  
"You fucker, you fucking shot my friend, you — "  
  
Sam gets an elbow to the cheek, but he also manages to slam the gun up against the man's nose, hard. The hunter flies back and rolls away, but he's quick to rush Sam all over again, clawing forward on his hands like a wild beast. Sam takes the shot that he can; the shotgun round blows out the guy's knee when he pulls that trigger. John used to tell Sam... he used to tell him — _Play through the pain._ And then, so much later, as Sam had been writhing from the effects of the Trials, Dean had echoed those very words.  
  
He has a feeling this hunter lived by those words, because he continues his rush on Sam and slams his target backwards into the nearest tree, knocking his skull against the rough bark. Something sharp and tight sinks into Sam's leg, and then again in his inner thigh, and then bounces off the bone of his pelvis. It takes him a moment to connect the way the man's arm needles with what is undoubtedly a blade being lanced wherever the knife finds living, cooled skin. He shoves the hunter sideways and catches sight of the bloody pocket knife in his grip — the desperate three-inches of a man who knows he's downed.  
  
He slams his body weight on the man and punches him hard, the knife flying and the gun in the man's holster unreachable. Then he wraps his long fingers around the guy's thick neck, squeezing as hard as he can; the shotgun is empty and abandoned in the grass, and they roll with reckless abandon across the ground. It's not until the hunter screams in surprise that Sam finds himself clinging to the edge of a ravine, watching as the man's body pin-balls down the rocky walls and crunches sickeningly against the rocks below. He only sees the remains of his victim when lightning tears through the sky, letting shadows play ring around the rosie with the man's weeping red skull.  
  
Sam crawls backward slowly, his body aching. A crowd around him roars at his victory, all black-eyed and grinning toothy smiles. They cheer and clap and he's put back into his cage for another day; another day to lick his wounds, to prepare himself for the next bloodbath. He staggers up to his feet, swaying, bloody patches growing on his jeans where the blade had sunk down deep. He touches one spot numbly, then looks around and smells the dirty ring, smells the stench of someone else's blood. His hands tremble. His shoulder blade throbs wickedly, blood dilluted by the rain. Rain — it doesn't... rain in the ring —  
  
"I got you," a demon says. He stands with his gun aimed, voice warbled, fractured, scraping like broken glass. "You — where are they? Where are the others who came through here? Fuck. Fuck! This isn't how this was supposed to go; it was supposed to be an easy in and out. You just take and take and take, don't you, _'Sam Winchester'_?"  
  
Sam sways, trying to focus. His shoulder hurts. He takes a step forward. The lights are so bright. The voices, so loud.  
  
The gun re-aims, and the demon yells, "Don't you fucking move! You murderous son of a bitch! You killed my friend, you know that?! You killed my friend! And I've been looking for you, you shapeshifting freak. I've been biding my time, looking for a chance to pay you back for what you did. You remember? You fucking scooped his brains out and left him on a morgue floor! You remember?!"  
  
Blinking, Sam focuses. He sees a hunter through the haze, the man's hand shivering, his eyes wet and red as he rants.  
  
"He had a life! He had a family! And he was my friend! You fucking remember?!"  
  
Sam frowns.  
  
Tips his head forward, dips his chin to his chest. He waits. He waits for the end, because there's nothing now. Just the throb of his hip, jeans tacky with blood, and the sensation of loss. And even with the thub-thub of his heart in his chest, he just... feels empty. He feels tired. There's no way in hell he can take this guy out, trapped between the end of a gun and a deep, hungry ravine where another body already sways in the shallow river waters.  
  
"I'm so... fucking tired," Sam says. The man stares, confused, his heart raw and vulnerable in his open chest. Because after all this hunter's planning, after all their anger and rage and their monologue, after all the guilt it spurs in his scarred chest, Sam is just too tired. He wants to pick up Leia and Lilly and walk them home, tuck them into bed, kiss their foreheads and lay on the couch until something repairs itself. It's so hard to focus, though. It's so hard to hear anything but the distant hollering of excited crowds, or the sound of the joyous announcer, a twisted version of a man pleased by his game shows. It's hard to open his eyes and face the spotlight. His hand flexes around a blade he isn't holding. "Just... leave them alone and take me instead. Do whatever you want. I - I'm sick of fighting. I don't want to fight anymore. Let me out of the ring. _Please_."  
  
The man stares for a long moment in his startled confusion. His idea of how this meeting would go has been ripped out from beneath him. But regardless - clearing his throat, aiming his gun at Sam's forehead, and steeling his voice, he says, "You don't get to decide anything anymore. But I can oblige in killing you, you _monster_ -"  
  
"Dennis!"  
  
The voice is like a tug on Sam's skin, pulling him out of one life and into another: deep, coarse, capable of cruelty but also the deepest care that Sam's ever really known. _Dean's voice._ Strong and sure and full of deadly intent. The man called Dennis turns around, looking as stunned as Sam must look; they stare at Dean, both see him as the end of everything. For him... it had started with Dean, Sam knows. Dean used to proudly tell him that his first utterance was Dean's name — botched, lisped, but pure and sweet and human. His first steps had been toward his brother, too. Had also been the first time he'd fallen so hard. So says his brother. Sam can't remember being that little baby. He couldn't imagine being so small and without guilt. He just remembers always feeling like he wasn't clean, wasn't pure. He remembers wondering if he was supposed to even be there with his father. With his brother.  
  
Sam steps forward, but then immediately steps back.  
  
_No_.  
  
Dean's staring between Dennis and Sam, eyes full of grim uncertainty. Because who is the hero of this story? Who is the one who falls now? Who's the monster, here? Who is the clean one? Sam knows the answer before he even ponders the question; he's killed so many, he's made so many mistakes, and he's failed everyone he's come to know. Without his girls there to catch his flaws and hide them under the bed, he's nothing but Sam, and he hates Sam. And all the dead that plague his heart and mind, they all point at him and say, _you know what you are._  
  
_You're a monster, Sam. A vampire._  
  
And Dean is here to finish what he had always wanted to.  
  
He must know. He must know what Sam's done to get here.  
  
"No, no, no — "  
  
He curls his fingers into his hair, and so easily, so _swiftly_ , everything feels like it collapses around him, catching fire.  
  
Someone shoots.  
  
But Dennis falls.  
  
The hunter Sam can't remember ever meeting collapses, blood pouring from between his eyes. Another body, another victory. This one's on Sam, no matter who pulled the trigger. It's another win in the cage. He looks up meekly from under messy bangs, and Dean — Dean slowly... slowly lowers his gun. There's not a trace of doubt in his brother's eyes.  
  
"... Sammy."  
  
And yet Sam takes another step backwards, regardless, the name as sharp as a blade settling between skin-slippery ribs.

* * *

  
  
_"Sammy, it's okay," Dean's high voice trembles. Sam sits up in the grass, numbed by the shock at first as his arm dangles awkwardly at his side. He looks up at the shed, so much taller than he remembers it looking. And then the pain carves his tiny body into pieces, from his hand up into his shoulder; he jack-knifes forward into his big brother's arms and screams out, confused, scared, his superhero cape askew across his shoulders. The arm curses at him, turns into its own broken beast, and all he can think is that it hurts. It hurts so, so much. Snot and tears spill over and his face is splotchy in his agony._  
  
_"Dean, it **hurts** — help, it hurts — S-s-something's **wrong** —!"_  
  
_Dean's hands paw along Sam's tiny shoulders. "I-I gotcha, bro. It's okay. Don't worry, it's not even that bad. It's not even that bad."_  
  
_But as Sam glances down tearfully to his oddly bent arm, he wonders —_  
  
_Can it be fixed at all?_


	14. How the Wild Things Let Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It's okay, Dean. I-it doesn't hurt as bad anymore."
> 
> Don't be scared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://youtu.be/OsGXTQIRbN0

Leia and Lilly curl up under the wide lip of rock jutting from the top of the watering hole. It had been relatively empty the last time they'd come in, but as the rain continues to pour, the old fishing spot fills and fills. Leia sits with Sam's jacket wrapped around them both, watching the rushing waters with a solemn gaze. Her fingers are entangled with Lilly's, and she squeezes gently. They have to wait for Sam. They have to wait for Sam, or wait until he never comes. But he's got to be here — he's got to be. Because what is Leia supposed to do if he doesn't come back? Where does she take Lilly? Where does she go?  
  
He told her before, when they spoke about him dying ahead of them... _Contingency plans_ , he'd called them, in that smart way of his.  
  
He told her, "I know you can do it. You guys are the bravest and smartest kids I've ever known."  
  
"Yeah, that's true," she'd said, "We're way smarter than you."  
  
And he'd laughed kindly.  
  
She pulls Lilly close and watches the waters, rain pattering all around them.  
  
In the shallow waterfall, a body drifts down, bumping against the smoothed rocks lifelessly near their feet.  
  
She hides Lilly's gaze in her shirt and finally allows herself to weep.

* * *

  
  
Dean feels like he might just fall over then and there — and not from the fucking concussion. Dennis is dead, and Dean's lost too much of his own humanity to care that he killed someone who had decent enough intentions for a hunter. Dean wasn't sure _what_ he'd do when he caught up to all this. He wasn't sure if he'd kick Dennis' ass until he was in the hospital, or if he'd put one between the shifter's eyes. He just... He didn't _know_. But here he is. Here he is, wind howling through the forest, a corpse beside them, and Sam...  
  
Sam is _here_.  
  
And it _is_ Sam, there's no doubt in Dean's mind. Because he just knows. This Sam's as thin as he had been in the church, eyes dark and bruised, the shape of his ribs prominent through the undershirt clinging to his figure — and there are scars. Scars kissing scars embracing scars, down his arms and peeking from his collar and intersecting spots on his hairline... The sight is from a nightmare, something Dean pictured but never wanted to find. Because he's an idiot who prayed for a healthy, tanned, muscular brother knocking on his door and saying "surprise, I'm here". A Sam who'd burst out of his captor's hands like a fuckin' superhero, who was hurting on the inside, hiding it under layers of plaid and beer and organic fruity shit. Dean expected a Sam who buried it all like they'd both buried Hell.  
  
But that's the stupidest thing he ever hoped for.  
  
Because it was always a great lie, and he knew it. It's why he'd drink until his dreams were fractured and forgotten.  
  
Sam looks like a frightened animal backed into a corner, blood soaking his pants and a wild, unapproachable look in his eyes, his shoulders rounded. There's a hitch in Sam's step when he moves even closer toward the edge of the ravine, and Dean can't tell if it was from the injuries to his leg or something he wasn't there to protect Sam from, years ago. He's not sure. He steps forward, but Sam's heel hangs off the edge of the rocky plummet, so he's quick to back away. He couldn't afford to lose Sam. Not when he's so close, not when it's so easy to watch him leave all over again. He puts his hands up.  
  
"It's okay. Sam. What're you doing, man? Get away from there. I just... I'm here."  
  
"You shouldn't have come here," Sam says, voice barely enough to reach his brother. "You shouldn't have come here."  
  
Dean tosses his handgun aside, weighted by his brother's words. This is his only chance; this is his last chance to make things right. This is the church all over again — and the church wasn't enough, and what happened afterward broke everything to pieces, and Dean'll never forgive himself for that. He sat in his own darkness after Sam vanished, after the Mark had been transferred... He sat in the darkness, he drank, and he thought about all the lies he told Sam. All the incidental broken promises. Sam had been there for him, ready to face down Metatron, after all the shit he'd pulled... Sam was there. He was smiling, he was ready to go in, guns blazing. And Dean knocked him out and left him all alone. He lied to him about Gadreel, he cost them Kevin, and he walked away afterward, in Sam's greatest time of need.  
  
And he thought about that _every_... _fucking_... _day_.  
  
He couldn't let Sam slip between his fingers, not after he'd let him before. He wouldn't walk away this time. He couldn't lose his family, not to Sam, and not to himself.  
  
"Of course I had to. I'm... I'm here to take you home."  
  
"Home — " Sam says. "Dean, don't let them die. I can't let them die. They're the only good thing I've..."  
  
" _Nobody's_ dying, Sam, not anymore," Dean says. He doesn't dare move yet, but his hands are up. Pleading. "Not you, or those kids. You're safe, Sammy. Please... come here. Get away from that deathpit, huh? Bet it's not as comfortable as a bed."  
  
"The lights are so bright," he rasps. "I can't... I can't."  
  
"You have to trust me."  
  
"Trust you?" A laugh bubbles up in Sam's throat. "Trust? No, no. I know this scene. I know this part in the story. You're gonna tell me how much you need me, and then you're gonna — you're gonna lock me up. You're gonna put me down. It was supposed to be us before, remember? It was supposed to be fixed before, and you — you talked me down and then you infected me. You put something in me, and I — I can't trust you. I can't trust any of this. I know I deserve it, but I can't do it again—"  
  
"Sammy..."  
  
"No!" Sam's voice booms, raw and exposed like a live current. He motions at Dean wildly, teetering where he stands, his eyes sharp and face flushed. Water whips off his fingertips as he gestures wildly, a man with too much inside to hold. Everything is damaged, and nothing is okay, and this was a long time coming. "No, you don't get to — you don't call me that! I'm not Sammy, I'm not Sam, I'm... I've done _so_ much... I've killed so many people! People _died_ for me, Dean! Before I was ever in the ring, I broke so many lives. If I go with you, I'm going to destroy more, I _know_ it, I just fucking _know_ it!"  
  
Dean stands quiet, watching, expression softening.  
  
He lets him speak.  
  
"... I thought I was okay, Dean. I made excuses, y'know? I made so many excuses. After Jessica, I told myself it wasn't my fault, that I couldn't've known. After you died, I thought I did everything I could to make it right. When Lucifer — when he got out, I told myself the _Cage_ was penance. You went to P—Purgatory, and I thought the Trials would... I thought I could make things right. For you, for Mom, for all those people, and I'd be _clean_ , but I was _selfish_. I was selfish and if I had just _done_ it, Kevin would be alive, and Abaddon and Cain would have been _gone_ , and — and — and _Lilly and Leia_ would have _never_ been taken by those _demons_ , because they would have been locked away."  
  
There is a limitless hate for himself as he jabs a finger out toward the infinite darkness.  
  
"I can barely protect them, too. I'll let them down, like I've let you down."  
  
"Sam..." Dean breathes, eyes burning hot. He swallows hard, hands dropping to his sides. He's not sure where to even begin. He's never been good with words, not like Sam. And he's terrified his words will be the ones Sam needs to take that plunge. "The last... few years. It's been — real empty in the bunker, y'know? Sometimes I go in your room and fuck with your stuff, just to imagine how pissed off you'd get. I used to get into my usual benders and I — I could hear you, y'know? Clear as day. You telling me off about it. Or you distracting me with some case that barely holds any weight on its own. Sometimes I miss your stupid classical record playing. And I fucking hate... I fucking _hate_ how empty the Impala is. Because you're so gigantic, it just looks like its practically a skeleton when you're gone. There's not a hammer or a wrench around that can fix that. All I've thought, all these years, was _findin_ ' you. Pulling you back and saying sorry. And I... I am, sorry. I'm sorry for everything."  
  
Sam stares at him like it's all news to him.  
  
And Dean's... sorry. Dean's sorry it feels like that.  
  
"But it's... not about what I want. Sammy, you're wrong. You're dead wrong, because you don't deserve any of the shit you've gotten. You've had a crummy life that you had to fight for since you were just a kid. I always thought... the fighting was just us against monsters, but I know it's not just that. And I can tell you've been fightin' for the last thirty years — hell, there are years nobody'll ever know about. You've been fighting the last few years, too. I can see that in your eyes, man. You've been throwing some killer right hooks, even after you got out." He finally breathes in deep, takes a step forward. Sam doesn't move. He can see the man's eyes glistening, eyelashes clumped together. He always expected Sam to bounce back, but there's only so much someone can handle — they're only human. "You're tired, Sam. I know. I'm sorry. But I'm gonna give you somewhere to rest, okay? You, and... the kids, too."  
  
Because... monster or not, if they're something that kept Sam going... Dean's not gonna leave them behind.  
  
Sam shakes his head weakly. "I don't... I've done... _so_ much. I've done so much bad. You said it yourself, remember? I'm a bloodsucking freak. I'm — I'm a vampire, I'm a monster. I'm a _monster_." Dean cocks his head, confused for a moment, while Sam looks at his hands, damaged and worn, tears falling freely and voice uneven. "Dean, I'm a monster... I'm no good to them or you or anyone, I'm — I'm — I'm so tired of fighting it, I'm tired of pretending. I used to say it wasn't what you are, but it's what you do, and I've done — I've done so _much_..."  
  
Dean puts his hand into Sam's shivering palm.  
  
"It's not always about what you do, Sammy. Sometimes it's about what you are."  
  
Sam looks up, hesitant. Dean searches that sappy, hazel pool and sees exactly what he expects.  
  
"You're Sam Winchester. You're a big fucking nerd and you always try to please people. You save lives without even batting an eye and you're better at telling people what they need to hear when their lives have practically exploded. You run into burning buildings and you throw yourself into literal hellholes, thinking you're never getting out, because you're stupidly brave. You fight off hellfire and you prayed to Cas when I sure the fuck wouldn't because you got faith nobody else does. And you put yourself through the shittiest case of the flu in history so I wouldn't have to, because you got hope that there was something at the end. And... even when I fucked you over and let you down, you came back for me and told me things'd be okay. Because you're loyal, even when you maybe shouldn't be."  
  
He squeezes Sam's hand, cold and pale, but _Sam's_. It's hard to believe it's real. He's not gonna lose Sam again. He's not.  
  
He looks at Sam's eyes, him, a tired old drunk who's sick of being alone, who just wants his fucked-up brother back, whole or not.  
  
"You're a good guy. That's what you are. I'm sorry, Sam. Let's go home. You... don't gotta fight it anymore."  
  
Sam closes his eyes and sags forward, and Dean wraps his arms around his brother securely. As they step away from that terrible pit, the one in Dean's stomach vanishes, heart fluttering. His brother is a heavy, cold mess in his hands, crying freely now into his collar like its the first time he's been allowed to in a long, long time. He hushes him gently, his scratchy cheek pressed against Sam's. It's years overdue.  
  
"... You're not a monster," he says softly into the shell of Sam's ear, "You're no vampire. Never thought you were. You're a good kid, Sammy. You're a good man."  
  
He can feel Sam's head shake weakly, but he says it. He says it over and over.  
  
Sam sags more deeply against his brother, keeps leaning until Dean staggers —  
  
Something's wrong.  
  
"Sam? Sammy?" he stammers quickly. His brother's head lolls as they collapse to the ground, a mess of bent legs, memories of Cold Oak — of the church — burning Dean's hopes of a perfect ending up into ashes. Why? What happened? Those leg wounds weren't that bad; they were fixable, they hadn't bled enough to... Dean traces the buttons of Sam's neck, his fingers feeling along until they touch the hilt of a knife, impaled fully between his brother's spine and shoulder blade. Hot blood. Sam had jarred the knife worse in his meeting with Dean; had jarred it, perhaps, in his struggle against the hunter, too. The stain is leeching out of his brother freely, a red, ugly sight. "Sam, Sam — oh, _fuck_. Sam, come on. Come on, get up, we need to... We need to move you, come on."  
  
He pulls up on his brother's arms, half-dragging him, panic coming over him again like waves.  
  
Nothing is ever so simple in their lives. Sam flops lifelessly against his chest and Dean bites his wounded tongue; anything not to scream with all his breath.  
  
"Sam, come on! _Come on_ , don't you fucking do this! Not when I just found you, Sammy, don't..."  
  
"The girls..." Sam says tiredly, smearing blood off his lips onto Dean's shoulder. "Get the girls... Don't lose 'em..."  
  
Dean hefts his brother against him; the cabin is easily an hour's run. A _sprint_.  
  
Maybe more.  
  
"I gotcha, I gotcha. You're gonna be fine."  
  
Dean barely remembers the rushed trek. He gets Sam back, though, on the verge of collapse as they stand in the shadow of the cabin.  
  
The sun rises over its outline while the limp, pliant figure in his arms sighs softly; he slips from the ravine and falls down deep into the dark.  
  
He finally lets go.

* * *

 

"Please, help! My brother, he's hurt real bad."  
  
The nurse at the hospital leans far forward over the counter until she can see the crying child with the broken arm in Dean's grip.  
  
Dean's panting, his bike discarded at the entrance, the wheel still spinning what feels endlessly.  
  
Sam smiles tightly from his brother's arms.  
  
"It's okay, Dean. I-it doesn't hurt as bad anymore."  
  
_Don't be scared._


	15. When the Darkness Speaks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam smiles softly at the memory, cheek pressed against his brother's shoulder, and he fades off into unconsciousness.
> 
> The darkness speaks.

This is what happens:  
  
Sam fights, and Dean finds him, and Sam expects the worst.  
  
But the worst never comes.  
  
Not what he thinks is the worst, anyway. His body hurts and the world is throbbing in tune with his heart, but Dean is hugging him tightly and patting his hair and - and Sam cries, because he is so fucking _shocked_ , so stunned that this is happening at all. He expected Dean to raise a gun to him, to take the shot and rid the world of the likes of him. Of the man wearing his brother's face, the man who turned into something else altogether. But Dean doesn't. And for a while, they stand there in that wonderful moment, one that Sam had only dreamed about but never, ever thought possible for someone like him. Dean's here. Maybe everything will be okay.  
  
Even as he collapses in Dean's arms, he thinks - maybe everything will be okay.  
  
His thigh wound chafes against his brother's hip. The world rushes by in dark patterns of leafy greens and bark browns as Dean carries him back toward his home; Dean, who is out of breath but still talking and talking, all in a futile attempt to keep Sam lucid as he can, even as he slumps against his brother's broad back. He must be heavy, Sam thinks. Even if he's as skinny as he'd been in high school after puberty pulled his legs longer, he knows that it's no easy trek. _He ain't heavy,_ Dean had told him once, carrying him from a botched hunt back in '99, _he's my lame-ass brother._  
  
Sam smiles softly at the memory, cheek pressed against his brother's shoulder, and he fades off into unconsciousness.  
  
The darkness speaks.  


* * *

  
"You knew this'd happen. You knew it'd end knee-deep in shit, didn't you?"  
  
Sam sits in the black expanse of his mind, his scarred arms perched on bony knees, squinting into the deep darkness that never ends. The voice that speaks is his own — but his lips haven't moved, have only pursed to the sound of it. He looks to the soulless dark closing in calmly around him, like he's easy prey. Like the darkness is a lion, ready to leap on a creature too weak to fight back. Sam finds himself here sometimes, when he's asleep, far before he was ever in the monster ring. Sometimes he woke up in the bunker in a cold sweat from this. Sometimes from other things. He hears them, his quietly fractured mind a spigot that pours him over with self-doubt. He took those broken and dangerous pieces of him back all those years ago — and for the most part, they're within him, mended back into him the longer time distances him from their memory.  
  
But... they're not always silent.  
  
He'd never told Dean. About those moments in his own head. His brother always expected that other shoe falling, after all.  
  
Inside the dark expanse, Sam can't see him, but the hellish, burnt figure slumped somewhere in the dark sucks in a choking breath. "It was always gonna be this way, Sam."  
  
"You're too soft-hearted," the soulless shroud says, all encompassing, pressing its heavy weight into Sam's very soul. "You aren't cut out for being a monster; those kids were screwed the moment you took them in. You made some pretty rookie mistakes. It's all that..." Somewhere, something gently pets his hair. Brushes it from his face. A tug on it brings him back to the dark. "... soul. All that — _Sam_."  
  
Sam sighs and drifts for a moment, but the darkness continues on.  
  
"Now Dean's here, and you know what he's gonna do? He's gonna take out the silver and stick them, right in the heart. Do you really think you can trust him with 'your kids'? That heart-to-heart was all lip-service. Hell, your lung is perforated. You're not gonna survive the day. So, y'know. Good job letting the ring memories screw up your judgment; I told you this'd be a problem. You should have let me in when you were in that cage."  
  
Soulless sounds distant and tinny, and the burnt, sad creature in the dark whispers in his hoarse voice: "You're too weak. He's right. Just... let it all go, Sam. You can't fight this. You can't keep fighting. It's easier to just... let whatever happens happen. It hurts less if you don't struggle."  
  
The heavy voice persists, "Besides... You're screwing up those kids' chances of staying alive, the longer you try to protect them." The soulless specter huffs. "I mean, I would have killed them, that's true. But at least I know what they are - they're monsters. Raising them like kids is going to just lower their odds in adulthood. Look at Amy. Remember that? She tried, and it blew up in her face."  
  
"Just... let go..."  
  
"Just give it up, man."  
  
"Just - "  
  
"Stop," Sam says, firm. He looks up from under tussled bangs, eyes rimmed red and bruised, and then he rises to his feet. The soulless shadow feels like it's in front of him now, feels like it peers darkly at him without eyes, but he stands firm, even as the sounds of the ring blare in the distant recesses of his mind. "You guys... You're wrong. You've always been wrong. Sure, sometimes... sometimes I believe you, that there's nothing. Hell, I used to think that I had my faith, at least. And that's - that's all but gone. There's nothing looking out for me out there, not like I imagined. I know that now, believe me, I do. But you know what? Those kids're worth hoping for. And they're looking out for me. I got faith in them, and as long as they still want me, I'll... I'll try to be there, even if I'm a fuck-up. And... Dean, he's — "  
  
He hesitates, but breathes in deep. His lung burns, boils in his chest.  
  
"I didn't believe in him. After I got out. Because of what happened... but. But he's come through before. He came for me. He _found_ me. And my _family_ , they... they want me. Somehow, they _do_. So..." He dips his chin, glowering. "Fuck off."  
  
Soulless makes a frustrated hiss between his teeth before fading back, leaving the dark shroud to fade just enough. The hellish man is there, same as always, Lucifer's wretched plaything that so obediently waits in the blackness, the void. Wearily, Sam wanders over to the limp, exhausted part of his damaged soul; he gravitates beside that piece of him and scoops his hand up, leans his shoulder into the hellish part of him he rarely ever visits; rarely ever consoles. He hates that tired old bastard. But today — today he thinks of Lilly and Leia. He thinks of Dean and how warm his hold was. He thumbs the man from Hell's knuckles. They melt together, but Sam is stronger than that Hell. He's brighter.  
  
"It'll be okay," he says.  
  
The man from hell, his eyes flutter. He leans against Sam and doesn't fight him, his strength wasted. "No, it won't... It's too late, Sam..."  
  
Here, in the darkness, in Sam's mind, they slump together, Lucifer's grand wreckage and the monster ring's favorite dishrag in crumpled heaps. Sam chokes on blood, black on his chin. Their lungs heave painfully. They breathe in the darkness, they weld together, are made whole as his consciousness begins to return to him, one bit at a time. He sighs softly, thinking, _'It's okay, Dean. It doesn't hurt as much.'_  
  
He wakes up.  
  
"... am... Sam... Come back to me, buddy."  
  
Sam blinks tiredly, his mouth wet and warm with the coppery tang of blood; he's laying on his back, cheek pressed into the cushion of his couch, blood smeared on the leathery material. Dean's swimming in his vision, clearing up as he blinks away one jagged tear. It's like a dream, a brighter one. But breathing is hard, and he can barely use his voice. Raw, vulnerable, he lets everything go. He lets it go. He's not sure why, but he feels so good, and his voice crackles with ecstatic exhaustion, if such a thing were ever as possible as it is now. "Dean."  
  
It feels so good, to say it like that.  
  
Dean smiles thinly, but there's a dark fear in his eyes. It's not often he sees his brother so afraid.  
  
"Yeah. You remember, we were having a heart-to-heart, and then you kind of ruined the moment."  
  
"S'rry... Y'found me, though." There's a weight on his shoulder blade, it hurts. He coughs, pain rippling through his nerve endings; it's nothing he can't handle. If pain were money, he would have his own island somewhere warm and pretty. It's so strange, how many kinds of pain there are. He'll take this over heartache any day — though watching his brother's anxious eyes dart across his brother's form, he thinks maybe he's feeling a little of that, too. His eyelids are struggling to stay open despite his newfound consciousness. He tries to focus on Dean instead, like he used to. "... Y'look like shit."  
  
Dean barks a tearful laugh, startled, edged with hysteria. "Fuck you, Sammy."  
  
"My girls," Sam says, voice paper thin. He's not sure when they became his, but they are, and he can't let them down, not even with a dying breath. "My girls... Need t'bring them home... My girls..." Dean hushes him, runs a hand over his brother's hair. He looks desperate, afraid. He's got a shadow of a beard and Sam smells the gun oil and liquor on his brother's coat. He wants to ask what happened to his head; it looks painful. He wants to ask how he found him, ask why he came for him, ask why he wanted him at all. But instead, he focuses on: "Please Dean. Don't let them down."  
  
Shockingly, he feels the outline of a small hand against his face when he says that, then hears a sniff from a runny nose that sounds all too familiar. He's had to wipe that nose before, many times. When he peels his eyes open, he's surprised by the little boy's face waving like an illusion in his bleary sight. The honey-warm eyes are red and wet, but there's no mistaking them, no matter how many kid faces she burns through. It makes him smile, surprised, content. "Lilly..."  
  
"Dad," Lilly says, bawling, touching his face again like it's the only spot that won't hurt him. "Dad, there's blood. Blood all over you."  
  
Leia leans over her sister's head, and Sam _sees_ it then. A wonderful picture he never expected: Dean and Leia and Lilly. Their faces together, pressed around him. Family. Everything that made him. A kid who's crying because he's hurt and she cares too much to help herself. A girl who's trying to be strong for him, even though she shouldn't have to be. His brother, who accepts him as he is, who wanted him to come back home... Through a veil of pain, there's something so profoundly god-like in it, so fulfilling, Sam feels an old flicker of optimism ripple in his chest. He chokes on a bloody sob, relief painting him vibrant colors. The most terrifying thing about lying here was thinking they were lost, alone, cold, but...  
  
"You're here..." he whispers.  
  
"I saw a body in the stream," Leia says quickly, gripping his wrist, maybe in an attempt to shackle him to them. He knows the feeling. Her bad arm is hanging at her side, bandaged, and her skin is pale enough to see blood vessels. But she's _here_. Nobody is dying today. Leia continues, "I saw - I... Sorry, Sam. I was going to stay where you said, but I thought... I was worried you were..."  
  
He wants to tell her it's okay. He wants to tell her he's so proud.  
  
But when he opens his mouth, just a little, just a sliver, only bloody froth bubbles up from his throat. He keeps breathing — trying — but his body doesn't seem to want to work. Maybe the struggle was long overdue. Everyone's eyes fill with panic, Charlie's voice distantly calling for them to do something, and a woman's unfamiliar voice replies back with words he can't quite make out before the pressure on his back returns. Maybe the weight is them, or maybe there's something really, really wrong with him. Maybe - maybe. It's hard to focus, hard to think. His eyes roll, the lids flickering. Little hands, big hands, they touch and tug and grab his face, his hand, cup his neck. Breath tickles his nose and eyes. Familiar. It feels so good, nothing really hurts. The worst part of drowning is panicking, clawing for purchase. But he feels - okay.  
  
"Sammy! _Sam_! Don't - please, I just - Sam, look at me. _Sam_."  
  
He doesn't want to die, though. He wants to wake up, get out of bed. There was so much wrong before, so many problems. He's such a fucking mess, he's not sure how he managed at all sometimes. But there are exceptions... there are moments where he was happy. Between the terrible nightmares and the guilt and that shadowy weight all around him, there are so many wonderful moments that gave him strength. Like a gauge, it gave him strength. He wishes he had reached out sooner, to his brother. He wishes he trusted the world enough to reach out.  
  
The pain lines smooth out, and he squeezes the heavy hand in his own, one he can tell his Dean's. It's okay, he says with his fingerprints. It's okay. It's okay. He's here. He's sorry. And he knows Dean is sorry. And that's what matters.  
  
"He's _dying_! Do something!" Leia yells in panic, so familiar with death that her calm evaporates effortlessly, "He's dying!"  
  
"Call... ambulance... mething!"  
  
He tries to listen.  
  
"W... hours out... He... make that."  
  
He really does.  
  
"It can't... nd... th... y..."  
  
The sounds of their voices are the last sounds that make it through.  
  
He's so sorry, he never meant to make you sound like that.  
  
Deep in the dark, soulless knocks on Sam's skull teasingly. "Time to go, Sam. Nice try, though."  
  
_Knock, knock, knock._  


* * *

  
Cas is too far away from the west coast, Dean knows.  
  
They're hours from civilization. And they don't have the equipment to deal with a wound like this.  
  
Dean's lost. He lost. Is losing. Losing his brother. _Again_. This was his fucking fault, has always been his fucking fault - but now it's like another shot to the gut, because this whole mess had started when he turned his brother away, juiced up on the Mark, thoughtless and foolish and _big-fucking-hero'd_. And now... Dennis wouldn't have even found Sammy if he hadn't just sent him straight to Sam's fucking doorstep. The two monster kids are bawling their eyes out, clinging to Sam as much as Dean is, begging and calling for him, hoping to lead him away from the dark... And this is on him.  
  
"It's my fault," Dean whispers hoarsely. "This is on me. I'm sorry, I'm sorry..."  
  
He presses his hand to the limp one hanging innocently from the couch. Like Sam just passed out there watching his boring history shows. Tears fall freely as he looks at the smug bastard's soft, relaxed expression, and it looks all wrong. He's bloody and his skin is pale as death, but he looks like he's the luckiest guy in the world, like he struck big, and Dean wants to shake him and tell him nothing's gained if he goes and dies on them now. They're together, aren't they? They found each other, didn't they? Dean's sorry, isn't he? So Sam - Sam's not allowed to leave like this, not _now_ , not _before_ Dean.  
  
"Please, I already lost you once, man... I can't..."  
  
Can't do this.  
  
But it feels like a vain gesture. He reaches out, cupping his brother's narrow cheekbone with his calloused palm, feeling how cold it already is. Wet and cold, the life fading out of it. It's Cold Oak. Dean wasn't fast enough again; he lost his brother, again, and - fuck, Sam's not breathing anymore, because his lungs don't work, and he's lost too much blood -  
  
Dean buries his face in Sam's shoulder, sobbing outright. He's going away. There's nothing to do. He's _leaving_.  
  
"I just found you. C'mon..."  
  
Behind him, he can hear the shifter kid's quiet voice, desperate. "Leia! Leia, he needs to change his skin. Change his face, then he'll get better. He can heal. No more blood."  
  
"Lilly, he can't. He's not you. He can't," the eldest cries.  
  
_Please, God..._  
  
There's a knock at the door.  
  
"Cas?" Dean says, voice a high and startled rasp. But that's not possible. The entryway in and out of Heaven is so far off, it just fucking couldn't be. Hope drains just as quickly as it resurges, and Charlie is quick to leap to her feet and wipe her eyes clear as she approaches the door with a handgun clasped in hand; Sherri is close behind her, ready and aimed, not allowing for the chance of losing anyone else tonight. Dean wants to back them up... wants to protect them, but he can't peel his fingers from Sam's shaggy mane. Can't unclasp his other hand from his brother's shirt.  
  
The door swings open — it's not Cas.  
  
No, it's a young man with wild black hair and of Hispanic descent, suit rumpled, an angel's blade held defensively in his hand; clearly, he's as ready for retaliation as Charlie is, but he doesn't move past the doorway until their impasse is met. He's got the same hardened look their angelic friend usually has in a moment of crisis, that edge of concern hiding in the shadows of his brow. He steps into the cabin with a clack of his dirtied shoes, and Leia leaps up to face him, tear-stained but baring her fangs against the new visitor. Desperate, hurt, and ready to kill for her sister.  
  
And perhaps tear him apart out of grief and frustration; Dean couldn't blame the kid.

"Charlie, Dean, move," the man says, voice not at all deep, and yet—  
  
Dean leans back on his knees, red-rimmed eyes widening faintly.  
  
"... Cas?"  
  
His friend cocks his head in Dean's direction, a subtle nod, and Dean sees the graveness of the situation in the angel's thinned lips.  
  
"I had to abandon my vessel for a time and find a new one; angels travel much faster when they don't have to steal a vehicle and drive across the country." Cas wastes no time, rushing to Sam's side, pressing his hands to Sam's forehead. His eyes are so different from the blue, vibrant eyes Dean is used to, but. It's Cas, no doubt about it. "There's still a chance. Be quiet."  
  
Castiel closes his eyes, and Dean knows he fucking means it when he says be quiet, because Castiel has so little strength after what had happened to his grace. He holds his breath and puts a hand out to keep the girls at bay, heart in his throat. He almost doesn't feel Leia's hand reaching out and squeezing his shoulder; for who's comfort, he's not sure, but he leaves it be. Blue light brightens the small, homely area, and while the floorboards are still stained with blood and dirt, Sam's skin gains color slowly, even though Castiel falters and breathes heavy in his attempt to rub life back into the broken body. Flesh warms under the hand still tangled in his brother's shirt.  
  
_Please,_ Dean thinks. _Please._  
  
He'll buy you a dog, Sam. He'll buy you a supermarket. He'll give these two kids a fucking college fund.  
  
He'll leave and never come back, if you wanted, just—  
  
"Come back, Sam," Castiel says kindly.  
  
And as if reaching back to the huddled group in the room, Sam breathes in a soft, calm breath.


	16. How the Wild Things Apologize

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I regret a lot of things, and I'm sorry about a lot of things," he says to her, his green eyes focused on her own.

The days that follow are long, excruciating ones.  
  
To normal people, anyway. To Sam and Dean and the monster children, it's Friday.  
  
Castiel's power had been enough to fix the gaping, ugly wound on Sam's back — the injuries to Sam's hip and thigh have their own journey of self-healing to deal with. The next best solution is to drug him up to the gills with prescription medication Dean's got stashed on Baby and let him sleep in Leia's bed; Lilly's can't at all contain the long-limbed man, but more than that, Sam wouldn't have been able to bring himself to take the youngest's room. He'd said that it's her safe place, and intruding on it would be a sin. Even in the haze of painkillers and terrible dreams, he's lucid enough to be that clear. _Take care of the girls._ Dean takes a lot of notes mentally from his brother's slurred grumbles: Lilly hates carrots, except when she's Tonya, then she'll only eat them and peanut butter sandwiches. She likes to be tucked in with a book — if she's Caleb, though, she sleeps in a pallet next to Sam because he's scared of being alone then. He's scared of spiders, too. If he's — uh, she's — someone... with a B-name, she... something about keeping her away from glue. Dean figures he'll learn through trial and error. Or rather, Charlie and the others will, because if Dean's honest the first few days are him glued to Sam's side like an annoying ex.  
  
Leia, though, Leia is self-sustaining enough. She knows exactly what she's doing, and Sam says nothing but to _'make sure she's okay'_. And Dean kinda gets that, knows how it feels to be pretty independent but still needing to be _okay_. So he puts that in his back pocket and focuses on making sure Sam has absolutely no chance of backsliding and getting anymore infections or sick or whatever. Charlie and Sherri and Cas, they're all there to help. And in fact, Charlie is the one to quietly offer to collect the bodies with Castiel. That's something at the back of all their minds, knowing there are pyres to build. People to lay to rest, however fucked up they were. And of course, the most important thing in Dean's twisted manual: to burn away evidence.  
  
Trail of dead hunters doesn't really look good, does it? He only hoped Dennis and his friends didn't spread the word about where they were heading. Instead, sitting next to Sam's bed, he carefully instructs the others on where they'll find some of the corpses. Charlie pales a little bit, but she also has fought plenty of her own wars. So she steels herself and heads out, as she tends to.  
  
"I'll help," Leia had said. Sam told her no. Absolutely not. But he also told Castiel with some measure of guilt to see how fresh the brain's were. Dean admits, he couldn't keep the flicker of disgust out of his face at the thought. He's a friggin' hunter, so sue him, alright? He doesn't regret for a moment defending Sam and the others — Dennis screwed him over, and if the other hunters were gunning for Sam... well, maybe a long time ago it would have stung a little, but that's not him anymore. The Mark may be gone, but it's hardened his gut. Just like Hell.  
  
One thing hasn't changed, though.  
  
"I'm not let you disrobe my junk," Sam grumbles.  
  
Dean just rolls his eyes. "Your junk's already disrobed, Sam. You got stabbed below the belt, remember?"  
  
He's lucky the guy stabbed him away from his babymaker, s'far as Dean is concerned. Sam must not remember that Dean's been the one to pull off the blankets and check on the sutures and reduce the swelling. And that he's the one who sutured it in the first place. There are some things that don't fucking matter anymore when the situation is severe; dealing with a naked little brother who is in horrible pain kind of negates any of the awkwardness. It's not like they haven't had weird hunting injuries before. It's mostly just that they'd agreed forever ago to only butt in when the severity beat out the embarrassment.  
  
Of course, Dean didn't expect... no, he did expect — the scars. Even as Sam surrenders with hazy shame and Dean peels back the heavy blanket, he sees instantly the traffic of paled, rough skin that drives along his brother's muscular albeit thin frame. Lot of claw marks, some spots where it's clear a chunk had been carved out. It makes his blood boil, the thought of his brother being cut into like a Christmas turkey, and Dean wasn't there. Was a fucking wreck elsewhere. It was all his fault, anyway. No amount of liquor'd take that away. And hell, that in and of itself is a big red stain on his conscience; he's been getting irritable and shaky since getting so effectively cut off from drinking. As it turns out, holing up in a little cabin to help the healing process was his own terrible rehab.  
  
He's pretty goddamn set on not letting it consume him when Sam needs him. It's just — his hands are shaking a lot. And yeah, when Sam's less aware, Dean shoves his hands under his armpits and curses feebly under his breath. Cas helps — helps a fuckin' lot when the worst of it tries to hit him, because Dean isn't really able to stomach the idea of being that bad off when Sam needs him.  
  
Sam doesn't comment on any of it, though. He's probably just too exhausted and feverish to, his eyelids fluttering against bruised skin. Dean smooths back his brother's mangy bangs and makes a mental note to try and get Sam into a bathtub sometime. Not soon, of course, but he feels bad knowing that Sam hasn't been able to clean out his mane.  
  
"It's getting kinda gross, man," he says jokingly. Every word he says to Sam feels like a dream. He's dreamed of this shit. "Figured you'd want your girly-smelling shampoo sometime soon, get your Farrah Fawcett back."  
  
Sam just blinks, confused. "... Actually I just... use the kid stuff now..."  
  
Dean sees what Sam means, when he finally gives in to his screaming bladder and wanders into the cabin's little bathroom. There are stick-on florals on the bathtub, the kind he imagines Lilly messes around with when she's scuba diving in there. There's a kid's bottle of shampoo, just like hazy-eyed Sam mentioned, and under a little table in there is a whole slew of stocked-up kid's bottles. Like Sam had just bulldozed through the shampoo aisle at a store and scooped up a whole armful of them. The thought is both funny and sad. Sad mostly because he realizes Sam wanted to make absolutely sure that they'd have hairwash for the kids down to the very last drop.  
  
He smiles tiredly, brushing his fingers along a meticulously kept sink rim.  
  
Other than the traces of the kids here, there's not much else. Just a clean, clean bathroom. One Sam must carefully clean often.  
  
"Who would have thought," he mumbles softly.  
  
There's a lot about Sam he didn't know. There's a lot he's missed. There's some selfish part of him that wants to push it all aside and drag Sam back to the bunker, and then some guilty part of him that knows he'd almost ruined this all for Sam. And then some concerned part of him that knows he could still fuck it all up for him.  
  
"Is Sam doing okay?"  
  
Dean startles with a mental curse, turning toward the eldest daughter — the kitsune kid, who has intensely focused eyes that remind Dean of Sam's galaxy greens; the shifter kid doesn't really bother Dean too much, because really, a shifter kid is just a person who turns into other people at the end of the day. Kitsune, though, that's a sore subject. She's scanning him like she's trying to find every dent in his armor, too, which really isn't helping, and he straightens up a bit under her scrutiny and reminds himself that she's a kid. A kid like Jacob had been. The thought is a sobering one.  
  
"Yeah. Yeah, he's doing good."  
  
"Doing well," the girl corrects, in such a Sam way that it actually kind of throws him off guard. "Lilly needs a bath. I'm gonna wash her up for Sam. D'you know how to make food?"  
  
Usually Dean is pretty good with kids, but for some reason he feels the need to instantly prove himself — that he's definitely not here to waste time and space, not even to this little girl, who's probably got more trauma under her belt than just about anyone out of elementary school does. He huffs and says, quite sure of himself, "I'm pretty great at burgers. And I can make a mean steak—"  
  
"Good," she says, short and uninterested, and moves past him without giving him much of a second glance. He steps out of her way as she retrieves a towel and a toothbrush and a shampoo bottle, setting everything up with care. She calls out, "Lilly, bath time!" before giving him a look that could only be described as attitude incarnate. No words needed there. Dean steps out of the room quickly, just as Lilly comes hopping eagerly down the hallway. The kid had a better bounce back from Sam's close encounter with death; that's the thing about being that age. When someone says your dad's gonna be fine, you believe it, and suddenly your worries and tears dry up without another thought.  
  
Leia, though, she's got all stress in the lines of her face.  
  
So Dean tries to cut her some slack.  
  
A little.  
  
In the living room, Charlie cleans up the crayons she'd used to color with Lilly, undaunted at the idea of spending her time with a supernaturally-charged kid. Dean imagines Sammy rummaging through a RiteAid or Walgreens for crayon boxes, and can't help but smile a little. It chases away the other images that plague him about his brother. At least, for a little bit.  
  


* * *

  
  
Sam had woken up a few days ago smothered in faces.  
  
He's not particularly surprised about that, but it's still difficult to wrap his head around. Lilly had been curled up at the end of the couch between his feet, and Leia had a pallet beside him with her fingers threaded through his, like she'd gone and fallen asleep like that — and Dean was there still, shockingly. He was awake, and he smiled at him. And Sam smiled back.  
  
It's time to heal, he supposes.  
  
The first thing he notices as he lays in a tired daze is this:  
  
Apologies are like assholes; everyone has them.  
  
Charlie apologizes first, when Dean's left for a short time to actually get some sleep of his own. It was hard to pry him or the girls away from the bedroom, but Sam — pained and weary as he was — wasn't about to be the one who kept the kids from actually getting out of the house. Never really took them out into town very often, but they walked a lot. Exercise, and all that. Dean had begrudgingly agreed to make sure the usual schedule was at least a little adhered to, even if he was fucking terrible at routine unless it became necessity.  
  
When Dean was gone, Charlie would sometimes come in to check on him.  
  
She's different from when he'd last met her, their meeting in the morgue not withstanding. Her hair is short, her expression a bit more world-weary, and he couldn't help but wonder what had happened between here and then — what had happened in Oz. But he imagines she's more freaked out about him than vice-versa, because she looks at him like he might deflate at any moment. Or maybe that was guilt, because it comes up like a burst of air from the ocean:  
  
"I'm sorry, Sam."  
  
He blinks at her, confused, and she continues with his newfound attention, "This all went crazy because of me. You told me not to... I mean, I told Dean about all this. I got people involved in your life, and I see now that, um. That is kind of went..."  
  
"Bonkers?" Sam tests.  
  
"Bonkers is a word for it," she says, but smiles a bit.  
  
"Charlie, you just wanted to help," Sam tells her at last. "You don't have to apologize."  
  
And she didn't. If he had been in her shoes, before all of this had happened, before everything went horribly wrong, who knows what he would have done. She'd found him and he — he freaked out at her. It was cause for concern. And at any rate, Sam figures... at this point, it was bound to happen. People knew Sam Winchester in this society, whether he liked it or not. Crazy or not. It's just a wonder he wasn't found out by a hunter who had bad blood with him. It's... it's too much energy to put any of that weight on Charlie or anyone. This was all on him.  
  
She seems to accept it, albeit hesitantly. "I'm still sorry."  
  
"I know."  
  
Charlie brings him soup, and Dean returns in somewhat of a concerned strut a few hours later, hair sticking up all over.  
  
Probably thought he'd slept through the day.  
  
The idiot.  
  


* * *

  
  
But the apologies kept coming.  
  
"I wanted to — um. Say sorry." Sherri, they said her name was. Charlie and Sherri, they were together a lot, so Sam kind of... maybe wrongly assumes there's more there. To be fair to him, there totally is something there, which he finds out later when he's not up to his gills in meds. She seems nice, seems like a decent addition to the hunting community, the kind he would have loved to see when he still considered himself a hunter (that's not him, not anymore, and it's scary and exhilarating and painful to see such a big part of himself sink further and further away). She seems smart, seems loyal, seems interested in a bigger picture. Sometimes literally. Dean had explained how things came to be, mostly. He explained her slight but crucial role, and for that, he imagines he knows why she's suddenly saying sorry, too.  
  
"It's fine," he says, wincing into a shift leftward on the bed. "Charlie already did all the apologizing."  
  
Sherri flusters a bit, but adamantly shakes her head. "No, I mean, I need to say it for myself, too. This all happened because of me."  
  
Which is pretty much what Charlie had said about herself, too. It seems he's not the only person to torture himself around here with the past.  
  
"You helped my brother when he asked for help. S'not anything against you," he says, dredging up some kindness he had thought he sheared away; nowadays, it's hard to find that complete and utter devotion to compassion that he had built like an empire so many years ago. But he tries, goddammit. He has to, for the sake of his kids. And now, he supposes, for the sake of the people falling into his life again.  
  
Sherri doesn't seem to know how to respond to that. But it's alright; Sam's got his own questions.  
  
"The picture, the one you thought I was in," he says, licking his dry lips when it feels like the words aren't coming. "Do you... have it with you?"  
  
They must be so fucking confused, all of them. But Sam — Sam just feels his heart constricting. When she retrieves the photo of the monster ring corpses, he's surprised at how many faces he can recollect from the heap; not a lot of them survived decomp (and he's got to give credit to Sherri for having such a steely stomach at her age), but he does see some fragments of memory he never thought he'd revisit outside of his nightmares. The body with his tattoo comes up, and his eyebrows twist in sympathetic agony almost immediately. The figure is gnarled, was pulled apart and twisted and mauled. Just as he remembers. He had cried a lot that day; nobody was supposed to get hurt again because of him. He had cursed ever following Gadreel out of his own mind more than ever. He had cursed ever stopping those goddamn trials. He had regretted putting up such a struggle to live, in the monster ring. That night was one of the last nights before he began to numb himself.  
  
His eyes prickle with hot tears.  
  
"That's Glenda," he says very softly.  
  
Glenda the good witch.  
  
He's alive because she is not.  
  


* * *

  
"I'm sorry," Castiel says, and - _really_ , Sam is starting to hate the words. He blinks up at the strange new face, searching hard to make sure there's a Cas there (because it's harder than it looks; angels act like its so easy to tell, but dammit, it's hard). Cas doesn't seem to be taking on that terribly wrecked look that the others were putting on, when they gave him The Apology Talk. "In this body, at my current strength... I'm sorry that I was not able to provide more."  
  
Sam sighs, huffs really. "Thank god. Thought you were gonna apologize for this mess, too."  
  
Castiel cocks his head, almond-shaped brown eyes reflecting some of that usual wonderment his friend sometimes has. It's so weird to see him like this — so weird to find that this is his first meeting with his friend in... god, Sam's lost track of time — Years, though. Years and years of avoidance. Of masking his prayers, turning them into hopeful wishes instead. Cas replies, "I could, since I'm culpible in leading the others here, but I can refrain if you'd prefer."  
  
That earnest way about him, so lacking in humor and yet so ironically funny, it makes him laugh a raspy little sound.  
  
"Gee, thanks."  
  
Castiel reaches over quietly, probably to try and put more of his energy into Sam's wound. He had already helped the infection that had tried to stir to life in Sam's hip, and while Sam knows he's... out of it a lot, he can tell when he's doing a number on Cas' power. It startles him a little, to find the angel so seemingly exhausted over the curing of one fragile human. It stirs in him a fresh wave of concern and guilt he hadn't considered before; just what was the angel up to, that he looks so tired? Sam would have to guess heaven. Maybe it was good, that Sam never bothered him, though. He would have just hindered him.  
  
Like he's doing right now.  
  
He swallows the self-pity, though, slumping further into the flower-print pillow.  
  
"... Why didn't you ever reach out to me?" Castiel says suddenly. There's a tone there that leaves a lump in Sam's throat. "I could have — I could have tried to do something for you. We had looked... I couldn't find you in Heaven, and it seemed even Hell was empty, and... Well, there are so many other parallel worlds and timelines and — "  
  
He sighs, cutting himself off when he realizes he's just a never-ending ribbon trailing the breeze.  
  
But then that just leaves room for Sam to reply, and he has a really friggin' hard time replying. He stares at the ceiling instead, feeling Castiel's eyes on him until they're suddenly not — and where he found that common courtesy, Sam's not sure. What is he supposed to say? What should he say? He's fucked up. He's really, really fucked in the head, worse than Lucifer's hallucinations ever did. Because then, at least he had most of himself. It was easier. All this killing and fighting and running later, he's not sure who he is; he's been battling with what is and isn't 'Sam' since the day he woke up in that godawful place.  
  
"I just..." he tries. Then they both have to wait again, for him to come back to himself. Maybe Cas can see it. The recollection of all these years, painting a pained expression on Sam's face. "At first it was... it was warded, so I wouldn't have reached you anyway. But... After..."  
  
"You were afraid of what I would think?"  
  
Honesty burns, but it sets you free a little.  
  
"... I don't know. I don't know. Yeah."  
  
Castiel places a hand on Sam's chest after a moment, over his heartbeat. _Ba-bmp, ba-bmp_. The palm is heavy but warm.  
  
"There is nothing you could become that would change this."

* * *

  
Cas had to leave, after a few days.  
  
Mostly because he'd left his body back in Heaven's care, and... how that even works, Dean isn't sure at all. He had asked the angel how he planned to jump back into his old skin, and Cas just shrugged, looks at ease about it like it's really nothing to concern them over. "I have my ways," is all he said, other than the standard request for the Winchesters to not get into anymore trouble. "I'll return to check up on you both. To, uh. Visit. Don't give me anymore reason to fly over as a giant celestial wave of panic, please."  
  
And so he's gone. And Sherri and Charlie, they leave not long after, under the confirmation that Dean will keep Sam and the other two safe.  
  
Nobody doubts him, exactly.  
  
As for him, well. He tries to keep his distance, when it comes to Thing One and Thing Two. They have their own way of life going, their own way of functioning, and if he said it didn't remind him of Sam and him as kids, he'd be lying. They're not even remotely related to them, but they've got these Winchester traits going strong, probably as an after-effect of being under Sam's cautious care. If he had to guess, anyway. Or maybe they were drawn to each other; maybe it was Fate. If she still had her day job and didn't hate their guts, anyway.  
  
He leaves Lilly to Leia a lot, tries to stay as hands-off as possible. Partly because it seems like Leia's got this covered. Partly because Dean's really not sure how to handle what she is. Partly because she doesn't seem to know how to handle what he is, either. He sticks to Sam's bed mostly, filling him in on what feels like centuries of time apart; call him sappy, and he'll never say any of it out loud, but that soulmate stuff really messes with you; he feels a hell of a lot more complete, feels like his wounds are scabbing over. It's stupid. It's stupid but it's what he wants and needs. The booze, he can smash against walls. The reckless hunting, he can call time-out on. Anything for this.  
  
For the first time in a long time, it feels like he's finally able to breathe.  
  
"How are they?" Sam asks, sitting up slowly in his bed for the umpteenth time (despite Dean's complaints). Some things don't change. He bitches and bitches and bitches, and it goes through one ear and out the other. He supposes he wouldn't have accepted anything less.  
  
"They're good. I made them grilled cheese." And Leia looked at him the whole time with a dash of suspision and sprinkle of loathing. "The kitsune kid checked to make sure I didn't poison them."  
  
"Leia," Sam corrects, squinting. "Her name's Leia."  
  
"Leia," Dean amends. "Sorry. New to me, is all. Mostly just been me, myself, and I. Pretty sure the kid — _Leia_ , has it out for me."  
  
Sam hums, and his voice a bit stronger than it had been the day before. "You're a hunter. And you're new. She just needs time to warm up, that's all."  
  
Dean dips his chin. "... You're a hunter, too."  
  
He's not sure what he expects — why he tests those waters — but Sam just shakes his head sadly.  
  
"Not anymore."  
  
And this time, if it means keeping his brother at his side, he's more than willing to accept that answer.  
  
"Sam... I'll be honest with you, alright?" He squeezes his knees, like that's gonna help his nerves. But this is something they have to talk about, isn't it? This is important. He swallows hard, trying to figure out how to put all of his thoughts in carefully scripted pages. In neat little cubbies. It's not gonna happen, but he can dream. "I'm still kind of pissed that you went quiet like that. I didn't know if you were alive or dead or trapped somewhere, and I was losing my damn mind, like - like Hell all over again. But... I know I ain't got a right to be mad. You got into this predicament because of me. Like — all of it. Not only that, but I led a bunch of blood-hungry hunters right to your doorstep. I really screwed up hard, and..."  
  
"If you're going to say another variation of ' _sorry_ ', too," Sam says with the most dry expression, "I'm gonna throw my pathetically weak ass over your face until you're effectively smothered to death."  
  
"... Dude," he sputters. "That's kind of kinky in the right hands; we're brothers, man. Don't give people like Becky fuel."  
  
There's a comfortable silence there, and they both beam bright like the sun.  
  
"... I'm glad you're here now," Sam says. He looks long and hard at Dean, and Dean can't find his voice; he just looks right back. This isn't a dream, and nobody's dead, and somehow against every single odd, he has his brother beside him. The fucking luck he has. It's more than he ever thought. Sam continues, "I'm pissed at a lot of shit you pulled... A lot of it. And there's a ton of crap that's messed up, and we got a lot of shit to talk about, but... I'm okay. I'm okay, right now, with you here. And with the others finding me. I didn't think I'd be, but."  
  
He breathes in, breathes out. Dean holds his breath, just a little.  
  
"I'm as okay as I can be."  
  
It goes unspoken: there's a lot wrong with both of them, but they're here.  
  
They'll figure it out.

* * *

  
  
At two in the morning, Dean wakes up blearily to find Sam's — Leia's — bed empty.  
  
Suddenly he ain't so bleary anymore. He feels hit by lightning, his adrenaline slaps him so hard.  
  
"Sam?!"  
  
It's not often his brother slips away so easily from him, but it's not impossible. There's been plenty of times where he felt that surge of panic, even into adulthood — like when Sam had left and ended up with a demon piloting the cockpit, or when Sam disappeared to do god-only-knows with Ruby, or when Sam went to go help Amy (Regrets Town, USA). The worst was Flagstaff. He freaked the hell out about Flagstaff. And now he's freaking the hell out about an injured, doped-up Sam suddenly being out of his bed. He'd almost lost him completely a few days before; he couldn't afford to be anything but alarmed.  
  
He leaps to his feet and scours the house, putting his hunter's training to some good goddamn use — Lilly is in her bed, curled around a dolly and still fast asleep. The door is just a little cracked so it's unlikely Sam slipped in there, but he glances in there anyway, just to be thorough. There's a blanket that is left pathetically wilted in the hallway, actually, so he goes that direction; clearly Sam had a king's robe for a few moments before it slipped off his shoulders to the unforgiving and chilly wooden floor. The front door is wide open like the cabin is practically yelling at him to hurry it up, and Dean is rushing for it, imagining some hunter pointing a knife to Sam's throat out front, or maybe shoving him to kneel before executing him, or — or _anything_ , god. _Anything_. He's flying out the door like he's got winged ankles.  
  
" _Sammy_ —!"  
  
 Sam is out here. Alone.  
  
He's standing in the mud from the rain that followed the storm, feet buried in the squelching earth, and he's staring at the dark forest with a dead expression that terrifies Dean. He hasn't seen something similar to that since Lucifer rattled Sam's brain, and even then, it wasn't... it wasn't like that. It's like Sam's completely checked out, like his soul's left him to some other terrible world. It hits him hard, especially when his brother doesn't flinch even an inch as he calls his name. He steels himself, prepared to move forward like a freight train and pull his brother into a protective hold, to keep him away from the deep darkness that surrounds the cabin—  
  
"Move," a little voice says instead, and Leia nudges right past him, undaunted as she moves to grab Sam's hands while Dean stands stunned and confused by the scene before him. The wound on her arm is stitched up and wrapped, but it's got to still hurt. Despite that, she's ignoring it and rubbing Sam's fingers one at a time. Putting warmth back in them. Pulling him back to them. Dean can see it. The kitsune girl uses a tone of voice that he's never heard the kid direct towards him before; only Sam, seems like, and it's soft, light, but still set in stone. "Dad. Let's go back to bed. You need your sleep."  
  
Sam blinks, looking from his scarred arms to the child. He towers over her, but he's practically jelly. "The... I can't... I don't know when I got here..."  
  
Leia nods in the darkness of early morning. "It's okay. You just need some more sleep. You sleptwalked again."  
  
Dean can only watch with quiet bewilderment as Leia tucks Sam's hand under hers and leads him back, the two shuffling quietly past him, back up the porch, back into the house. Like they've done it so many times. Like she's not even remotely surprised at the state of his brother. Of her adoptive father. She gives him that same old defensive look, like she's trying to protect the mouth of her den, and it occurs to Dean that he really doesn't know anything about the way this new little world of theirs works at all. He's got a lot to learn.  
  
And he's really gotta work on not feeling jealous of this tween kid, when she can do his job for him.  
  
It a way, it feels like failure.

* * *

  
Time passes, and he gets better.  
  
Sam limps to the dinner table and practices Lilly's ABC's with her while Dean goes out to get groceries; they've been getting low, especially with Sam so out of commission. He couldn't help but feel a little shitty about that. It's his house, right? He's supposed to be the one out there scoping through the TV dinner aisle. The garden's about as used as it's gonna get, especially since the storm had really washed it all to hell...  
  
"He's taking too long," Leia says sharply, stirring the last box of mac and cheese on the stove. "He shouldn't take so long. It's dinner time. Lilly's hungry."  
  
And _alright_. He sees it now. Dean had mentioned it before, but...  
  
" _Leia_ ," he says, and she can tell _exactly_ what he's about to talk about. Her shoulders square a little, and though he can't see her face, he reads the mild defiance there. Eventually she turns around and thins her lips, her hand fisted in a raggedy towel pulled from the oven handle. It's clear she wants to hold onto her immensely unhappy emotions without actually _talking_ about them, but that's really not gonna get them anywhere. So. Sam sighs through his nose and says, "He's my family... And he's your family, too. You got to ease up a little on him, okay?"  
  
Silence meets him, as he fears it would. It doesn't feel right to force her to like anyone with 'hunter' as a subtitle, though. No matter what the circumstances are.  
  
And he knows she must be thinking, bitterly, _He's not my family._  
  
"Are you sorry?" she says in a worried tone, and snaps him out of it.  
  
"What?"  
  
It occurs to him that her ears are bright red, and that there's some sort of... shame, or embarrassment, or guilt. Or all of the above. He looks in a mirror, so he knows the look pretty well. But instead of prodding at her to keep talking, he sits in patient silence instead. Lilly just chews on the end of her pencil, blissful in her focus on the papers scattered on the table. Finally, Leia summons up courage. Like what she's saying is dangerous, barbed, unsafe.  
  
"Are you... Are you sorry that things happened... how they happened? Do you ever wish things... weren't... how they went?"  
  
His features soften. _Ah_.  
  
She's waiting to see if he wishes he'd never been captured. If he wishes he could go back and undo it all. Undo all of _this_.  
  
With Dean in their lives, with old faces from before, she's terrified that he sees this as a mistake.  
  
That he sees her as a mistake.  
  
It hurts to think. Because he has felt that way before, too. Of course he has. How could he not?  
  
He motions for her to step closer, and she can't help but listen to the wordless gesture of his careful hands. She puts her palm in his, and he squeezes, holds her there more with the emotion behind it than with the physicality. "I regret a lot of things, and I'm sorry about a lot of things," he says to her, his green eyes focused on her own. He rubs the back of her hand with a thumb. "But... I'll never be sorry you guys chose me."  
  
That's really all she needs. He sees that.  
  
And if she sniffs and quickly wipes away a tear before it can reveal itself, he's not gonna mention it.  
  
The front door's lock clicks and turns as Dean reappears in the doorway, groceries in his hands and a mild scowl on his face. A needed interruption for the eldest daughter, Sam thinks. She steps back to regain her demeanor while Dean struggles to balance all the crap in his hands. "Can you believe they charged me forty cents a bag? Jesus, what's this world coming to."  
  
"I think the world is realizing we're killing dolphins with plastic coke can rings," Sam humors him.  
  
They're definitely both surprised by the swiftness in which Leia bounds over to assist Dean, scooping up one of the bags that had been balancing precariously on Dean's shoulder. It wasn't without careful thought from her behalf, but as she adjusts her arms around the heavy collection of vegetables and fruit and gives her father a cursory glance, she says, "Can you show me how to make some of the stuff Sam likes?"  
  
Sam stares. Blinks. Smiles.  
  
And in easy sync, Dean stares. Blinks. Smiles, too.  
  
"Peanut butter and banana sandwiches?" he offers.  
  
Leia wrinkles her nose at Sam, and Sam just laughs like it's the best face he's ever seen. It kind of is.  
  
The four of them, they prepare dinner.  
  
And they sit together.  
  
And Lilly accidentally tips and spills her milk all over Dean's lap.  
  
And tonight... things are good.


	17. Notes on the Wild Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They've both ditched the beer for soda. It's a new look.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second to last chapter! The next one will wrap everything up. I'm sad but I'm also so happy to have gotten to this point.
> 
> Thank you guys so much for your continued comments. ♥
> 
> song for the chapter:
> 
> https://youtu.be/g5vUBQBykJ4

"You sure about this?"  
  
"Yeah. It'll be safer there."  
  
Sam's still stiff and tired, still an uncoordinated and sleepy-eyed mess when he tells Dean what Dean probably wants to hear — albeit sheepishly. The fact of the matter is, as much as he loves the cabin, it's not secure, not like the bunker is. For whatever dangers await them, the difficult doors and Bermuda Triangle that is their old home would be a better place for the girls to thrive. It's a place heaped with books and learning, a place with many rooms and more space. There is forest around them there, on the days he could brave the outside world and be normal with them for a moment. And for all the perils the bunker may house in the future, nothing compares to the near-fatal encounter they've had here, where so many hunters died trying to tear them down.  
  
It is simply a more viable option. Sam has been working off cold logic to keep them alive, when emotion won't cut it.  
  
The girls, they're not thrilled, but when it's put into simple terms, they get it. He's so glad they understand, because the last thing he wants is to make them feel like he's yanking them around haplessly with no home in sight. He doesn't want their malice. He's terrified of them feeling like he's ruining something. He doesn't — want to ever ruin anything ever again. And when Leia and Lilly both agree to hug him around the neck, he feels their support and love there. It's downright painful, in his heart.  
  
_Thank you,_ he thinks. He wants them to know he's trying. He is.  
  
Dean sits back and lets Sam do all the talking, but even when Sam's steadfast on his decision, it seems Dean feels the regret bolstered on Sam's shoulders when he looks around the cabin they've made home, if even for a short while. There are four boxes. Four boxes house everything they ever need. One is mostly supplies and a few of Sam's rarely seen valuables. The other three are the children's things; blankets, toys, those sorts of required items that every kid needs and Sam regrets never having for him and Dean when they were young. Dad did what he could most of the time, but Sam could never say he's had a box with his name written on it.  
  
He means to correct that. You learn from your parents, mistakes especially.  
  
Just like he and Dean have started on correcting their own tattered family, their own fractured relationship.  
  
They've had a lot of talks. It's a step forward. For once, they've agreed on a life to lead — that is, the one each of them wants, wholly.  
  
Dean carries the boxes out to the Impala, once the girls have plucked up all their things and housed them carefully away. Lilly keeps Miss Balley, short for Miss Ballerina, and holds her the entire time in a tight and protective grip. She didn't want to leave her behind, not by accident, and Sam almost feels like picking up the two kids and holding them the same exact way. He limps through the cabin, a crutch pilfered by his brother tucked under his armpit, and takes the final thing: a calendar for the year, scribbled on by both him and Leia on many occasions. In a way, it's invaluable in its record-keeping.  
  
He looks around the bare wooden walls and absorbs the sudden silence, struck by the peace of it. He thought there wouldn't be any left to offer after that had happened that stormy night, but instead of feeling like a new prison, it simply feels like a loss. _Strange_. He's felt this so few times: when he'd lost Jessica; when he left his home in Kermit, Texas; and now there's a similar pang, a final goodbye. Perhaps someday he'll return — if he does, he has no doubts he'd be more than willing to clean up its busted shell. It's only fair after this place has helped to clean up his.  
  
He's exhausted by the time he huffs his way off the porch, and Dean and Leia are both quick to stay at his sides and put out steadying hands. As much as Dean would like him to sit in the front seat, Sam's plumb tired, and instead the hunter pokes him to stretch out and relax in the back seat with Lilly. Leia is more than okay with riding shotgun; in fact, Sam's surprised that the kitsune child has taken more of a tolerance to Dean than she had before. Granted, she still saves all her homegrown sass and unamused stares for him, but at the very least she's accepted whatever he is in her life. He appreciates that.  
  
Sam looks back only passingly to the cabin when they pull away, biting a wince as Lilly curls up a bit further against him. It hurts only a little, but it also feels wonderful; he slips a hand around her shoulders and gives her a little squeeze, feeling his eyelids grow heavier with every mile that passes in his peripheral. The medication really hits him — he drifts in and out, hears bits and pieces of the world around him. No nightmares. It's nice, not deep so much as a strange disconnected method of floating. Aimlessly floating. He hears Dean, peels open his eyes a little to drink from a water bottle and eat half of a bad convenience store hotdog. If he says something about ground-up meat, he doesn't remember _exactly_ what, but he does remember Dean looking a little concerned over it.  
  
The blackness that comes with exhaustion paves the way to Dean and Leia's hushed voices as Lilly warms his side. It's nighttime and they need a hotel. But that's not what the conversation is about. Dean's coaxed an old, practically busted brown box of tape cassettes into Leia's lap and Sam can hear him excitedly talk about the glory that ACDC's best record ever. The radio's turned down low but _Back in Black_ plays in joyful jolts from the speakers. Dean says in a faux haughty tone, "They're one of the best bands there is. Classics. Mozart should take notes."  
  
With considerable delay and earnest focus on the music, Leia says, "I don't like it."  
  
" _What_? No way, you're trying to kill me here."  
  
"M'not...! It's just — what else is here?"  
  
There's a plastic clicking as the tapes tap together.  
  
"There's... uh... Pink Floyd isn't really kid-fun. Or Black Sabbath. Or—"  
  
_Click_. Michael Jackson's _Thriller_ starts playing mid-song, and Sam hears the small smile in Leia's voice when she says, "Oh. This one's better."  
  
Dean, for all the debates he's had with Sam in the car about the cassettes, just hums contentedly and surrenders when Leia bans him from karaoke.

And Sam — he feels _good_.

 

* * *

 

 

  
A few days of drifting toward Kansas, and Sam brings it up.  
  
"So," he says, softly. "I just... um. You're really okay with it?"  
  
"Yeah," Dean replies without any hesitation. "... I know I got my reservations about a lot. I know I'm kind of an asshole with — with supernatural stuff. You know. I've always... gave you a kind of hard time about things that weren't normal. But this? Going out and getting corpse brain? I've done way fucking worse than that, these least few years." Dean looks very tired when he says it, but Sam doesn't press it. Dean clams up a lot when he asks questions about the time away from Sam; it's only fair, because Sam can't talk about the monster ring. He can't talk about the time before Leia and Lilly, not without feeling the texture of uncooked meat on his tongue and smelling that place, rancid and miserably hot. The scars are enough of a story. Dean looks at them like he'd carved every mark. Of course Sam just wants to slap his head against something close by when he gets like that (but he doesn't, he doesn't want to hurt people, he doesn't want to do that anymore, he never wanted to). He settles for exasperated glances instead.  
  
Oblivious to being the subject of their conversation, Leia has swapped him to sleep in the backseat of the car, curled up alongside her sister with entangled arms. It's a scene that has always helped Sam when he's felt too lost and afraid to keep on fighting; Sam can see it in the way Dean smiles a bit, when he looks in the rearview mirror. Dean could see how important it all is, in the end. Maybe he's cautious, afraid, maybe it needs some time, but Sam knows Dean'll love these kids. Dean loves any kid with hearts like theirs. He'll protect them if Sam ever finds he can't make it out of this unpredictable world where anything (and everything) can go wrong.  
  
It gives him some newfound relief, to not be alone in this.  
  
"I — can't hunt," Sam says sincerely again. He knows Dean wants to. Whatever happened with the Mark, it hasn't stopped the need. The want. And if Dean is getting pituitary glands through _cases_ , Sam just... But Dean shakes his head. If you had told Sam, years back, that Dean would so easily accept Sam's desire to tuck tail on the family business and consider it a viable choice, Sam would have probably thought you were crazy. But this is reality now. Things change. It's not like Sam gets a lot of pleasure from that — but he does relax at the idea of not letting his brother down again.  
  
"I know, Sammy." Dean cups his hand against the back of Sam's neck. "It's alright. Let me take care of it."  
  
And while Sam doesn't want Dean to use kid gloves and treat him like a fragile, new thing out of some sense of... duty or guilt, Sam has to admit, he drifts off relishing his brother's words and tracing each and every one of them in the back of his mind.  
  
"You're such a girl," Dean says, but there's not an ounce of seriousness to the accusation, and Sam's not the one rubbing his neck here.  
  
Besides, Sam has it on good authority that girls are pretty fucking awesome.

 

* * *

 

Dean observes the changes with a keen eye. He crossed out notes in his mental biography for Sam and adds more cliff notes. Sam doesn't like the same places in diners that he used to before. He likes corners, places he can see everything at all times, somewhere with a very close exit. He doesn't have any electronics he fiddles with anymore while he waits for his food; he used to mess around on his phone, tease Dean about his dating profiles, check his e-mails religiously for little things. This Sam, he has a phone he keeps on silent, empty of contacts other than Leia's emergency number, and tucked in his pocket. He watches the girls like a hawk. But most of all, he watches everyone else. Leia does it, too, but she puts a lot of faith in Sammy and looks to Lilly to help her or keep her company during Sam's hyper-focused moods.  
  
Dean snaps his fingers to get Sam's attention, and those hawk-like eyes startle and turn to him like he expects something to leap at him from over the table.  
  
"... Sorry," Sam mumbles.  
  
These are things that have changed. Sam doesn't have hunter instincts anymore. He's got a caged animal's instinct, and that... is fucking horrific. It's the worst thing Dean's realized thus far. It's one thing that Sam's got nightmares and sleepwalks sometimes, because Sam's always had something going on with him when it came to sleeping or even startling awake in the dead of night to go for unconventional walks in the rain, but this long journey back from a less literal but no less destructive hell has irrevocably wounded him in ways that has stripped away what made diner trips so homely and soothing. This isn't two brothers having a meal and bitching about cases. Sam's ready to kill someone if he has to. He's eating french fries but he is also completely prepared to stab and dash on the bill.  
  
Dean supposes there's only so many times he can apologize before Sam gives him a Look and slams his brother's head on a hard surface.  
  
So he buttons his lip and continues rewriting the details of Sam in his head.  
  
Sam somehow has completely abandoned credit cards. He holds cash, just enough at a time to move from place to place. Sam has some kind of internal clock that knows exactly when Lilly needs to use the restroom. Sam doesn't seem as focused on hygiene anymore; his hair is oily, even after he'd gotten strong enough to wash it solo. His clothes are rumpled, hardly maintained; the kids always are immaculately dressed when Sam's there to do it, and that hurts in some way Dean can't identify. Sam hides as much of himself as possible, even though it's kind of stuffy in here. Sam chews on the inside of his cheek, something Dean's never really noticed him do before. His fingernails are rough from years of gnawing at them, looks like. And when the cute little waitress wanders over, Sam's smile is stretched, elastic, and there's no good nature or shy mirth in his interaction.  
  
It's the soulless guy, almost. Only it's not, because soulless didn't suffer like this.  
  
There has to be a limit to how much Dean can stand this.  
  
He wants to fix it with a stitch or two. If only it were ever that simple — and Dean's got to fucking stop thinking like that. It's been thirty years, thirty-five and more, and it's only now that he realizes he's _always_ tried to mend his brother's gushing wounds with a few bandaids out of a mom's medicine cabinet. Like it works and Sam should be right as British rain. There was no being selfish about this now, wishing Sam was just the shitheaded little brother who grounded him and reminded him of his worth and all that sappy shit. He's always relied on making Sam well, but he thinks he's lost track of what... actually _makes_ Sam well.  
  
Stupid. Stupid, stupid.  
  
He's not even remotely sure where to start with bandaging these wounds now, so he grins at Lilly and says, "You should draw your dad a clown. He loves 'em."  
  
It's an asshole thing, but it also makes Sam give him a completely annoyed bitchface, and anything is better than the distance in Sam's paranoia.  
  
Sam says with some familiar attitude, "Actually, I like planes a lot more."

 

* * *

 

 

"Oooooh," Lilly gasps, Miss Bally clutched under an armpit.  
  
The bunker probably could look a little better; where Sam had kept the cabin as orderly as possible for the girls, Dean's never bothered. There are clothes in the main room, because Dean hasn't cared about modesty since he started living alone. There are beer bottles stationed on every counter or table, emptied. There are records strewn around and dust gathered on things; Dean used to secretly love cleaning, but not he's not exactly Martha Stewart lately. It's amazing how fast that desire to fix up the whole place has come back to him — he's a bit embarrassed at this being Sam's welcome back. Cans being kicked shouldn't be your homecoming trumpets.  
  
Because it's not really much of a home, at the moment. It had been a dumpy little place where a drunkard would get lectured by an angel on a routine basis.  
  
But if Sam has (undoubtedly) noticed, he doesn't say anything.  
  
He instead leads the girls around and shows them where everything is, a limp still prominent in his partially-healed step. They get rooms right near his, and Lilly and Leia unpack their things and start making this place their own pretty quickly. Leia's room is scarce like it had been before, but there's something really hopeful about the way her jewelry box is delicately placed like it owns the entire wall-length shelf. Hopefully more joins it.  
  
Sam sits down on the bed that is Leia's, and Dean hovers near enough to try and keep an eye and ear out for his little brother and the kids. Just to. You know. Make sure they're okay. And because he's self-conscience, sue him. He's never cared so much about the approval of little kids before in his entire friggin' life, small Sammy not included in where it applies.  
  
And from here, Dean takes more notes on the new person Sam's metamorphosed into. Like...  
  
Sam brushes Leia and Lilly's hair. Like, he actually does his fucking best, and Dean doesn't use that description loosely. For some reason, Dean kind of assumed Charlie had been the one to put Leia's hair into a french braid back at the cabin. Turns out, the kids have their own collection of weird hair ties and cutesy stuff that Sam decorates their hair with like it's an actual case he's researching for, with a scrunched brow and a focused stare that isn't one birthed from his time in the ring.  
  
Sam also has a soft way about him, when he talks to the kids. He asks him how they feel, like he's their shrink, but in that way he does that is so invested and empathetic. Dean's realized very quickly that Sam hasn't completely lost what made him a good hunter; he's still kind and careful and always thinking about the people involved, but it needs to be rationed now. He carefully distributes his time and energy. It's how he makes due. He also plays sudoku a lot. Did he even like sudoku before?  
  
Sam also really likes teaching the kids about things, which doesn't necessarily feel like its a new Sam thing.  
  
He leads them around room to room and Dean's still pleased to find Sam is just as deeply enthralled by random factoids and mythology as he's ever been. He tells them about the book shelves and tells Leia she's more than allowed to read whatever sounds interesting — as long as it doesn't have the words 'spell book' on it or something. He promises Lilly he'll update her children's book collection, when she's disappointed at the lack of pictures in most of the things she picks up. Dean had kidnapped a _Pete the Cat_ book from her box out of sheer curiosity, and if that lead to Lilly staring him down until he read from it, he's not about to admit it.  
  
Sam tells them not to touch any swords or weapons unless they are trained properly with them, or it's in desperate times.  
  
It kind of reminds him of Dad.  
  
Now, the gentle way of things, the warmth _born_ from learned pain and survival, not so much, but he wouldn't expect any less from Sam Winchester. It's not like Dad would probably disagree with that; their father and Sam are not the same person, and their dad, he couldn't feel like Sam felt. Sam, he felt a lot, felt more than the rest of 'em since the day he could talk, and that's something Dean always liked about his brother. He had all those thoughts and feelings, and even though Dean tormented him endlessly for it just for the rise he got out of his brother, he also saw it as a life raft. Maybe their father saw it too, even if he never really said it. Maybe that's one of the reasons Stanford hurt a little more?  
  
For all the wounds inflicted on his brother, Dean finds himself less than a realist. It's just — well. Sam won't see it, not like Dean does, but for every gashed mark Sam's ever gotten, it's like... light pours out of it. Like — goodness, you know? The thought, sappy and unpredictable, makes his throat clamp up with something. He's hopeless. Always has been, when it came to his family, no matter what mistakes he's made for it, both the good and terribly bad.  
  
"You're a good dad," he says as they watch the girls from where they sit. They've both ditched the beer for soda. It's a new look. "They're lucky to have such a tough bastard for a father, I mean."  
  
Sam looks at him like it's the weirdest thing in the world.  
  
Dean just watches the kids with a smile that actually reaches his eyes, for once.  
  
Later, they watch a movie all sitting in Sam's bed. Everything else outside of that tiny island is of little importance.  
  
Who says that's a bad thing?

 

* * *

  
  
"... You sure about that?"  
  
"Yeah. I need to, Dean. I do. I owe them this."  
  
Sam stands in the doorway, in his pajama clothes, eyes more lucid than they usually are at this time of night. His hair is clean and rinsed with his favorite shampoo by his own volition, tucked behind his ears, and his usually wanner face seems to have gained much more glow in the last few months here. The girls have just been put to bed, their stomachs full with some strange but delicious concoction of a meal Dean had pilfered from a cookbook. Sammy's got a photo in his hand, and he's studying it like he does sometimes, letting whatever he's feeling eat away at him. Dean leaves him be mostly when he's like that. Tonight, though, Sam looks sure of himself. He looks ready for a hunt, but it's not the same kind of hunt they would pilgrimage before. This one is different. Terribly different, and so much more painful, mentioned only briefly at times but never settled on.  
  
Dean sits up a bit straighter and nods.  
  
"Alright," he says with that sandpapered softness, wiping a hand over his wildly pointed hair, "... Tomorrow. Family road trip."  
  
Sam looks nervous for a moment when he stares down at his bare feet, but then he swallows and nods.  
  
He has to do this, finally, and Dean knows it.  
  
"Yeah."  
  
Tomorrow.


	18. How the Wild Things End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe it's okay, to believe you're gonna heal, sooner or later.

Dean prepares lunches that will hardly last them their entire trip and Sam packs a few additional jars of what is undoubtedly brain in an icy cold container. They had postponed their trip when Leia had developed a fever in the night, and Sam had been too terrified that she would get worse, let alone trying to move her across the United States. They'd stayed put, and Dean grimly left sometime during one of those long nights to return with worryingly fresh brain matter. When Sam looked at him and considered asking the unthinkable, Dean had just shook his head and said, "Didn't get this from anyone alive, Sam."  
  
Sad thing is, Sam wouldn't have been upset. He knows Dean would have picked the living carefully, if it had ever come to that. And while the Sam of years ago would be horrified by that idea — that he would do what Amy had done for her kid — he can't summon the effort to be a good person again now. Not when it came to the life of his daughter. Dean probably reads that in his face. Hell, Dean's different now, too. He would probably help. Would help his brother keep this family alive. It's not something he'd ever want to force on him, but Sam has a feeling he doesn't need to. When Dean passes him the jar, he looks at Sam in that fiercely loyal way that makes Sam's heart ache.  
  
They give Leia a little time to get better, and then they leave the bunker for their planned trip. She's still a bit wobbly on her feet, but she's got color in her cheeks again, and the worst is over. She'll be fine. She leans her head out the window and lets the wind play on her hair, and Sam knows they've avoided their health scare. Everything's going to be okay for now, and that's enough for Sam to enjoy a little wind from the passing scenery, himself.  
  
"I feel like my car is full of dogs," Dean says, when Lilly also sticks her head out the window.  
  
They don't make a beeline for the mid-west, though. They stop by Sioux Falls first.  
  
Jody is hustling out from her front door before he's even out of the Impala, still dressed up in her sheriff's uniform from a hard day's work, before she makes a move to hug Sam — and hesitates, hovering in front of him. She _reads_ something in him, and he feels this overwhelming self-consciousness, like maybe he really does look like some strange leper that nobody would want to embrace. It's only when she holds her arms out again, motioning to him, letting him make the choice, that he realizes she probably knows as much as Dean does by now; she's trying to let him find some comfort in touch on his own time, at his own pace.  
  
The thought is a nice one, and he lets himself melt into her soft, careful hold.  
  
Her hand rubs circles in his back, and he hears rough emotion in her tone. "Welcome back, Sam. We missed you."  
  
He ducks his chin into her shoulder, bent awkwardly and feeling somehow small in the tiny woman's grip.  
  
"... It's good to be back," he replies, and it really feels like it's true.  
  
Alex and a blonde girl in dark mascara stands at the front of the house, shifting back and forth in their sneakers. Sam's heard about Castiel finding Claire again — about her mother's passing, and about Dean leading her right to the cop's front door. Sam's not even surprised that Jody had opened her home up to another kid; when she took Annie in, Sam could see she took her in with such paternal intensity, it's no wonder she didn't start her own halfway house for orphans.  
  
Leia and Lilly approach cautiously behind their father as he is finally allowed to disentangle himself from Jody's grip, while Dean's not too far behind them, giving the sheriff a one-armed but will entirely genuine hug. It's safe here, Sam tells himself. It's safe. Dean wanders to pester Claire like it's a holiday special for him, to make her roll her eyes and complain in the distance, while Jody offers the girls a smile. Crouching on one knee, she tries her best to look harmless. Sam appreciates that, too. He appreciates all of this.  
  
"Hi. You're Lilly and Leia, aren't you?"  
  
Lilly, taking up the face of Jasmine today, pulls her thumb out of her mouth and smiles a timid smile that is missing a few teeth.  
  
"You're Jody," the child says, undaunted. Sam's told her stories, made her feel prepared for the new figure encroaching on their small, private bubble.  
  
"That's me. Say, I happen to have two girls of my own; how about you guys go visit? I bet you'll be good friends. They're very nice, too." She turns her attention to Sam, a little wry smile on her lips. "Or else they'll have double the kitchen duty, so sayeth the boss of the house." Sam isn't really scared of Annie; the girl knows what it's like, to have monsters in your family, to embrace that side of life. Claire, he's admittedly skittish about. After all, she's had so much ripped away from her by inhuman forces that it's only fair she harbors ill will toward the things that go bump in the night.  
  
Jody seems to know just what he's thinking, and she says softly, "I told Claire a few things. She's interested in meeting the girls. They... have a lot in common."  
  
And besides, Sam adds mentally, Dean is watching them all like a hawk.  
  
They set up a table for dinner, and Sam pulls on his sleeves to help with it all like a normal person does, feeling strange without the weight of his jacket defending the old marks from scrutiny. Claire watches them a lot, unaware that Sam is _too_ aware nowadays. It's not long in the preparing of supper before they end up alone in the small space by chance, and the girl finally has an opportunity to try and speak to a man she hasn't ran into in many, many years. He wouldn't be surprised if she saw him as a threat, but maybe time around Cas and Dean have done something for her, because her intentions seem pure.  
  
"... Hi," she mumbles, tucking a wild blond lock behind her ear. She seems unsure of how to voice what's on her mind, but — "You're a lot different than I remember. You look, um..."  
  
He quirks a brow. "Like shit?"  
  
Taken aback, she grins toward the curtains on the window in front of them, then finally looks at him. "I was gonna say something nicer, but sure. That's good. You cook?"  
  
"A little," he admits, because it's weird to think about how he's picked up such normal traits while feeling so wrong in his skin all these years. "You?"  
  
She clears her throat. "Almost burnt the house down, once."  
  
"Ah."  
  
And it's as easy as that. They sit and have a meal, the whole lot of them. And though it's a bit stiff at first, Sam finds there's a calmness in it that he kind of would like to have again sometime. Annie and Claire show Leia around their rooms, which Sam has been careful not to intrude _too_ much on, but he does give passing glances through the cracked door while Dean turns down a beer that Jody offers in the backdrop.  
  
Sam looks again, catches the briefest moment of Annie pulling up one of Lilly's feet to paint her nails. His ear catches the conversation inside; just a part of it.  
  
"I lost my mom and dad, too," Claire says, soft and kind, very unlike the girl in the kitchen with the mile-high sass and careful defense. "Sorry. Jody told me."  
  
"It's okay," Leia says. "I'm sorry about your mom and dad. I'm glad you found a new one."  
  
Like a revelation, slow, but warmed: "... Yeah. I guess... I did."  
  
Sam steps away, meets Jody in the living room, and feels his eye drawn to the textbooks stacked on the coffee table, because even now its in his nature to notice these things.  
  
"... College books?"  
  
"It's been a long time, Sam." She rubs a hand on his bicep, brows knitted in sympathy while her smile grows thin. "They graduated high school a while ago."

* * *

  
  
"Hey, Dad. Do you think..." Leia begins, as they lay down for the night on Jody's blow-up mattresses and comfortable couch cushions, "... that I could do that? What they did? Go... to school?"  
  
Sam looks over, and in the light he suddenly realizes Leia's face seems sharper, eyes not quite so large in youth, her neck slimmer than he recollects. He could have swore she looked younger than this. He could have swore she was just a kid, but now that she's looking so earnestly — so _hopefully_ — at him, he realizes she's going to be an adult in almost no time at all. She's thirteen years old. She's a teenager. The thought steals his breath, new fear trickling in, and for what is not the first time he wonders if he'll ever be remotely qualified to help her reach adulthood. Go to school. Go to college. Be normal. Part of him wants to lock her away from society and protect her from everything out there that has fangs or blades alike. But he knows better. He knows that's not going to make her happy, if that's not what she craves from life.  
  
He feels a little guilty, that he's never outright asked her what she wants. She's never _seemed_ to want to be around other people. But...  
  
But maybe days like this are all it takes. Maybe she's daydreamed a little, looking at those old girly magazines on Jody's bookshelf.  
  
Imagine that. The girls going to school, braving that world for something good. Something pure and honest and what anyone deserves. What he'd wanted, as a child.  
  
He blinks, surprised when his eyes feel hot.  
  
"Of... of course you can. You can do whatever you want, Leia." His voice is just a whisper. "I'll help you with anything you decide. It's your life." The memories of a shaggy-haired young man standing outside of Stanford University in a soaked hoodie with an old duffel feels like a million years away. Smiling, he reaches out and smooths back the hair on her head. Sam prays to God, finally, after so many years: _Please, if you're still out there, keep her safe._  
  
The decision is this: he will find a way to carry them to Heaven when the end comes, which is... hopefully in the far, far future. Even if he needs to bulldoze through every monster in Purgatory, or every angel in Heaven. He'll tear Hell up by the roots and rattle Lucifer in his cage, if he has to. They're not going to be fated to that awful place; they're so much more than where death wants to send them.  
  
And anyway, he's a Winchester, after all. He won't settle for less.  
  
He finds little comfort sleeping somewhere new, even in the house of a friend, but he does find comfort in the way Leia tucks her chin at his answer, her lips curling fondly. Sleep carries him away eventually, and he gnashes his teeth at the usual dreams that trickle in ( _the lights, the cold cage, the hiss of beasts_ ), but waking up to the sight of the Winchesters sprawled across the floor in peaceful sleep? It gives him enough peace of mind to find a little solace of his own. The cold sweat settles and dries. He refuses to be taken apart by his own mind this day, not on such a good night like tonight.  
  
When they pack everything up and leave at the crack of morning, Jody makes sure he puts her phone number back into his contacts — without allowing for even a moment any breed of dissent from him of course. Sam wouldn't dream of denying her this demand. She says, handing his phone back, "After all, you and I have even more in common now than ever before. I've got experience. Let me know when they start sneaking out of the house to set off fireworks at the park."  
  
Dean cracks up, but Sam doesn't think his mortification is _that_ funny, thanks.  


* * *

  
  
They reach Reno, Nevada at last.  
  
And even with all the problems the last few years: all the terrible nightmares and bad sleepwalking episodes — even with the terrible concoctions of Lucifer and the monster ring, or the days of burdened paranoia, Sam has never, ever, ever forgotten _this_ address. He had memorized it with the utmost care, as would an angel with the names of prophets. The house the Impala has pulled up in front of is very neatly kept and so utterly normal in appearance that Sam forgets that _nothing_ is what meets the eye. Not anymore, if it ever did. He steps out of the car with Lilly on his heels, but Leia sits firm in the car with Dean, as Dean peers out through the window.  
  
"You sure you're good by yourself?" he asks Sam, frowning. Even with his time among the monster children, Dean can't bring himself to trust a home belonging to the things he'd hunt in the night. But Sam just waves a hand dismissively, trying to bolster some of that fast-fading courage. He _has_ to do this. there's no two ways about it. With a little smile, he throws his thumb over his shoulder.  
  
"I'll be fine. And I won't be by myself; Lilly's my back-up on this one."  
  
Dean whistles low, peering down at Lilly. "Keep him safe, huh?"  
  
Lilly nods, clasping his hand tighter in hers.  
  
They take the long walk past a bird fountain and alongside carefully tended rose bushes. It's neat, bright, and yet Sam feels his palms sweat at his sides as he takes step after grueling step to the doorbell. He pushes it quickly, like ripping off a bandaid. And he waits.  
  
The person who answers is an old woman, her hair white on her head and carefully maintained in a short bob. She's got a comfortable-looking knitted sweater on, the pinnacle of a relative you'd visit on the holidays, something soft and inviting about her bright blue eyes. There's nothing out of the ordinary about her, nothing strange about her person, so much so that Sam for a moment considers that maybe the people he's looking for had moved away; it was more than possible, after losing something so precious to them. And yet...  
  
He clears his throat. The voice he uses is one of condolences, light and careful. "I came here on behalf of Glenda."

The woman's spotted, shivering hands move slowly to her mouth, eyes welling with tears, and she sobs, because she doesn't have to ask where Glenda is.  
  
But despite this, there is a weight taken off her thin shoulders that Sam practically _feels_ erode away.  
  
This must be Glenda's grandmother.  


* * *

  
  
The living room is very clean and orderly, potpourri sitting in a basket on the small table between them. There aren't a lot of photos, but enough, and the place is decorated in friendly colors and warm tones. Glenda's grandmother, Mildred, serves he and Lilly drinks, and Sam tells her everything that had happened when she's ready and eager to know the details. He tells her all that he remembers, tells her about how strong her granddaughter had been — and how _kind_. The girl hadn't lost herself to that horrible place. He wanted her grandma to know. He wanted them all to know. The shifter wipes her eyes with an intricate handkerchief and nods when he finishes talking, hunkered with her palpable grief — but there's also something good there. Sam imagines it has to be worth something to her, to _finally_ know the truth. To know what happened to the good witch of the south. Dean had talked about it before: the feeling of not knowing whether someone you love is alive or dead. Not knowing the truth of why they're suddenly gone forever from your life. Even if it means facing that they're gone, anything is better than _never_ knowing.  
  
"I'm sorry," he says, bowing his head. Lilly observes the two of them where she sits with round, curious eyes. "She sacrificed herself so that I could go on."  
  
"Don't," she's quick to respond. Her tone is firm and full of years spent on thinking. "She wanted to protect you, and so she did. She was priceless and irreplaceable. And she had decided that you are, too." She leans in, pressing her quivering hand to Sam's chest, over his heart. "She was you, at the end of everything. And so, Mr. Winchester, a part of you is my grandbaby. I can never hate you. I could _never_."  
  
Sam has to bite his lip, to keep himself together, while she leans back and closes her eyes with a sigh. She's grateful, and if he's honest, Sam didn't expect that. Not in the least. She tells him, "... Glenda's mother, my daughter — was killed last year by a group of hunters. I'm sorry you couldn't tell her what happened as well."  
  
As if his heart couldn't lodge in his throat any more than it has.  
  
"I... That's terrible, I'm..."  
  
"No, it's alright." She takes a moment to recollect herself, hands in her lap. "After Glenda's disappearance, she had looked long and hard for her. Unfortunately, when it comes to us shifters, we have... our own afflictions, sometimes. It's as you'd find with any species, Mr. Winchester... We have our own weaknesses in mental health. I suppose to make up for our physical endurance... For many of us, we lose sight of ourselves the more we shift and the more we forget what we believe in. It's not uncommon for us to go mad, to be so fractured by what we absorb that we lose everything that made us seem human."  
  
She takes a drink of her iced tea quietly, then, and Sam squeezes Lilly's hand in his own, glad to have her at his side, even if she can't completely grasp why they're here. Mildred continues sadly, "She had gone mad and had killed. I can't fault anyone for her death as well, no matter how much I wish I could. I could barely recognize her, and I know she would have had to be saved from herself eventually. I just... This house has gotten much more lonely since they've gone."  
  
She casts a sweet smile at Lilly, though.  
  
"This is your child, is she? Keep her close, Mr. Winchester. She's quiet, but I can tell she's a smart one."  
  
"I will," he says when he finally finds his voice, sincerity heavy in his words. "I will."  
  
Before they leave, though, Mildred has one request.  
  
Just one, one Sam has no right to turn away; it's up to Lilly in the end, and as the old woman crouches down a little and shows his daughter the photo kept in a carefully polished frame, the old woman's eyes mist with longing and love and grief. Glenda is small in the picture, just a tiny thing in her mother's arms. She's smiling eternally in glossy print, not a care in the world, a fish frozen in time in her proud hands. Lilly looks over the image with that intensity she does any photo, and her hand slips from her mouth.  
  
"If it's alright with you, Lilly..." Mildred says in nearly a whisper; her eyes are deep blue and rich with sadness. "I know it's just her face, and I know you're much younger than she had been, but if I could... just have one more time, to see her."  
  
Just one more time. And Lilly is willing to give that to her, even if she doesn't understand how heavy such a request really is.  
  
Sam sits at the kitchen table, close but so very far away in ways that aren't simply physical, watching little Glenda and Mildred at the oven as they bake chocolate chip cookies under the warmth of a big light fixture. Sam's not sure this is something he'll ever understand, the way shifters know one another so meticulously, so carefully, but he's glad that both of them have smiles on their faces.  
  
"Whoa," Glenda gasps from where she's tip-toed on a stool, and laughs a little. "My dad _never_ uses real flour!"  
  
Sam chuckles under his breath, catching his lip between his teeth. The smell of a normal family wafts through the small one-story house, memories trickling through the hallways like muted melodies most people have forgotten. Mildred looks freed, though, stripped of the invisible chains that the monster ring had bound _her_ very being with as well; she may not have been taken like her granddaughter or Sam had been, but now that he watches, he couldn't help but wonder if it would have been a kinder fate.  
  
The chains around his wrists and ankles, they loosen, too.  
  
Something good came from this. Something was put at ease, and while it's not nearly enough repair just yet, it is the best he's felt in months.  
  
Maybe it's okay, to think things may get better.  
  
Maybe it's okay, to believe you're gonna heal, sooner or later.  
  
Little round-faced Glenda gives him a hot cookie on a plate, and they sit and talk just a little longer, about all sorts of things. Happy moments, and a shifter's advice to a helpless, hopeless man trying to raise one, and hesitant hopes for the future. And when they say their goodbyes to the sad, smiling grandmother, he scoops his child up in his arms, her legs wrapped around his narrow waist, fingers tangled up in the unruly hair on the nape of his neck as she hangs off him as they step off the porch and onto the sidewalk. She's warm and alive and hugging him fiercely with a smile buried in his neck, and he fiercely hugs her back. He'll do anything for her, and he'll do anything for Leia, and he'll make things right with Dean, and he'll fix himself for all of them, as best he can. They deserve someone whose gears aren't so rusted. Someone who offers everything he can. He's nothing as good as they are, but he wants to be, and so he'll try. He'll try his best. He promises.  
  
"I'm so glad I found you," he says into her hair.  
  
In a low voice, Lilly says back, "I found you first." And then, just as fondly, "It's okay if you don't use real flour."  
  
They walk out from beneath the house's shadow, as he runs a hand over the crown of her head.  
  
Light  from the midday sun shimmers along the black roof of the Impala, as Dean and Leia wait eagerly for the rest of their family, to take them home at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh, I'mma cry. So many pages, so much pain and joy! I'm a masochist!
> 
> But wow, that's the end, guys. And technically the first time I've ever ended a multi-chapter fanfiction of this magnitude. Thank you guys so, so much for all the wonderful comments and everyone who cheered me along and made me feel the drive to continue with this and let it grow from just a simple prompt fill. I love these characters so, so much and I love the journey I got to have with them. I don't have any plans to continue this or add anymore to it, but you never know — for now, I think I'll leave it here, let the end credits roll unless the plot bunnies start up again or a timestamp feels in order.
> 
> Comments as always are appreciated, and I hope you enjoyed How the Wild Things Start (or The Wild Things verse, because Ashlee is terrible at sticking to one name). See you guys around for other random Supernatural fanfic! We'll see if we have more multi-chaptered fanfic in the future, huh? ;)
> 
> — Ashlee @ foolscapper.tumblr.com


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